Jo Beverley - [Malloren 01]

by My Lady Notorious

  Chastity’s hands stilled. Nerissa Trelyn: daughter of the Bishop of Peterborough; wife of Lord Trelyn, image of propriety; Toast of London and social arbiter; one of the people who had seen Chastity in bed with Henry Vernham and condemned her.

  Nerissa Trelyn was Heatherington’s seducer!

  Chastity looked vaguely around. She picked up a brown satin dressing-gown and slipped it on. She curled up in a big chair by the fire and poured herself a glass of wine from a decanter there.

  Could she be mistaken? she wondered as she sipped. It scarcely seemed believable and yet she was sure, mainly because of the distinctive, mellow voice. She wore a red wig over her blonde hair, but it was she. The great Lady Trelyn was here playing the whore.

  Could she have recognized Chastity?

  No, she’d definitely had her eyes and mind on other matters.

  On the whole, Chastity wasn’t surprised that Nerissa Trelyn had lovers; the world knew she’d married Lord Trelyn for his money, and he appeared to be a cold, dry man.

  But for her to be in such a place . . .

  And she’d had the gall to condemn Chastity Ware!

  How many more were here? How many more hypocrites?

  Chastity drained the glass and stood. She had to find out. She began to drag on her clothes again but paused. Her brother Fort. If she bumped into him, he’d know her.

  She needed to be masked. But only the women were masked. If she dressed as a woman, with wig and mask, surely no one would recognize her. Chastity had recognized Nerissa Trelyn by her voice and so would be careful to disguise her own.

  She hovered uncertainly. She wanted, quite desperately, to stay safe in his room. But she wanted, just as desperately, to confirm the unbelievable—that Nerissa Trelyn was reveling below stairs—because if it were so, there might be some way to use the information to help her own situation.

  She’d do it. Just a brief and cautious foray.

  Chastity flung open the doors of Lord Heatherington’s armoire, but found it contained only men’s clothing. She beat her hands together in frustration. She could doubtless assemble a female costume from the bits of clothing lying around this house, but she didn’t dare go searching.

  The adjoining room. She’d go odds it belonged to a woman.

  In a moment she’d turned the lock and was in. Yes! Clearly a woman’s room. Now, would the clothes fit? A glance in the armoire told her they would—not perfectly, but well enough.

  She couldn’t suppress a laugh of delight at the selection of pretty gowns before her. It had been so long since she’d seen such delicious confections. She threw off the dressing-gown and pulled on a sheer white silk chemise with elbow-length sleeves edged with a double layer of foaming lace. She shivered with pleasure as it slithered over her skin, a mere veil over her body, not substantial at all.

  Next, she chose a padded petticoat of white satin trimmed with yellow ribbon. She stepped into it and tied the laces at her waist. A brocade stomacher went on top, its V front coming down over the waistband of the petticoat. She had some trouble tying the laces in the back, but there was no question of summoning a servant and so she did the best she could, smiling at the memory of dressing Cyn, sighing at the thought of what it would be like to be dressed, or undressed, by him.

  She pushed such thoughts aside.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. The stomacher barely covered her nipples and pushed up the fullness of her breasts. Their swelling was only covered by the filmy chemise. She’d never worn such a bold bodice before, but she liked it. After her long, arid masquerade it felt so wonderful to be a woman again.

  She took down an open gown of yellow-and-brown-striped silk and put it on, hooking it to the stomacher at the sides of the waist. Above and below it spread open to show both petticoat and stomacher. The elbow-length sleeves showed the lacy frill of the chemise.

  She twirled, laughing for the pleasure of fine things, for the rustling, slithering feel of silk. The skirts hung rather limp and would be better for hoops, but if the lady who owned all this had hoops she was wearing them. The padding of the petticoat gave some fullness, and Chastity was clearly a little taller than the true owner, for the skirts did not trail.

  It occurred to her that this could be Nerissa Trelyn’s room. She sought for clues but found nothing to confirm her suspicions. Suppressing her conscience, she searched thoroughly. Nothing in any of the drawers.

  Then she found a small ivory box. In it were two letters, two heated love letters. She sighed with frustration. They were probably from Lord Heatherington but were addressed to Desirée. The name meant nothing, for fashion dictated that a man address his beloved by a fanciful name. Chastity had been Bella to one suitor and Clorinda to another.

  But then she wondered whether Heatherington kept his love letters.

  She hurried to search his room. After unsuccessfully checking boxes and drawers—the sort of places where a lady would carefully store her billets doux—she at last found one stuffed carelessly into a jacket pocket.

  The lady’s style was more flowery, but no less outrageous. It made Chastity blush to read such a lustful communication. The note was addressed to Hercules and signed Desirée, but must surely be in the writer’s own hand. It was hardly the kind of letter one would dictate to a secretary. Would the writing prove to be that of Lady Trelyn?

  Chastity placed the letter carefully in the waistcoat pocket of her suit. She was more anxious than ever to continue her investigation, to seek a firm identification of Nerissa, and detect any other hypocrites cavorting below.

  But she needed a wig, and there was none. For a moment she thought she would have to abandon her adventure, and was aware of guilty relief, but then she remembered the black wig Cyn had bought from Mrs. Crupley. Was it still in his portmanteau?

  She found it was. It was a poor specimen of coarse black horsehair, but she thought it would do for this occasion. She dragged a comb through it to tame it, then dusted the curls with the powder in the lady’s room—a rather unpleasant pink, perfumed with roses. Chastity coughed as the stuff billowed around her.

  It worked, however. When she put the mass of curls on her head, the powder softened the unlikely dense black, and made the effect quite pleasing.

  Chastity made free with the lady’s dressing table. A rabbit’s foot dipped in rouge gave extra color to her cheeks, and a finger in a pot produced cream rouge for the lips. She dusted her face with white powder, and affixed a black velvet heart by her mouth—an invitation to a kiss.

  Chastity assessed herself in the mirror with satisfaction. A fine lady stood there, ready for a ball or for court, though perhaps a little over-painted for the latter. She looked older and bolder than herself. For sure, Toby Berrisford wouldn’t recognize a certain youth, and Fort wouldn’t recognize his sister. Chastity Ware had always dressed demurely, as befitted a well-brought-up young lady in search of a husband.

  And she looked good. Her waist was trim, her shoulders smooth and white, and if her breasts lacked the mass of cantaloupes, they were still shown to advantage by the low bodice.

  She reminded herself that she did not seek to be admired. In fact this costume might garner her more admiration than she could handle. On the other hand, discretion in dress would stand out here like a cherry in a bowl of peas. She twitched the stomacher just a little higher, assuring herself she would only go out among the revelers for a little while, and would be very careful.

  She couldn’t help wonder what would happen if she met Cyn like this. Would he recognize her? Surely not. Would he admire her? She pushed such speculations out of mind. He’d be more likely to put her over his knee. For tonight, she’d keep well out of Cyn Malloren’s way.

  As for other admirers, all the men appeared to be drunk and she should be able to dodge and outwit them. It was not as if there was a shortage of willing females.

  Finally, the mask. She tied on a black velvet half-mask, which had the added advantage of securing the wig. She nodded at her ref
lection. She wouldn’t know herself.

  There was only one pair of shoes and they were too small. Nerissa Trelyn made much of her tiny feet.

  Chastity shrugged. She doubted anyone would be surprised to see someone in bare feet in this house. As a last gesture, she picked up a vial of perfume, but when she smelt it, she grimaced at the heavy, sickly rose odor.

  She remembered the perfume Cyn had bought. What had he done with it?

  She returned to Heatherington’s bedroom, locking the adjoining door, and rummaged in Cyn’s bag. She found the crystal vial. She unstoppered it and sniffed with delight at the complex blend of spice and flowers, underlaid with elements that spoke of lust. She hesitated, wondering if wearing it might not be dangerous in this place, then told herself that such a discreet invitation to intimacy would be swamped by all the other odors. She wanted to wear it for herself, because it was wonderful, and made her feel powerful in her womanhood. She dabbed some at her elbows and between her breasts.

  The aroma drifted up warm from her body to dizzy her mind. Cyn Malloren had exquisite taste. What a shame, she thought, that their fates would keep them apart.

  Chastity admitted the truth. Part of her desperation to find out who was here tonight was a forlorn hope that she could glean some information with which to help repair her reputation. Then she could meet Cyn on honest ground.

  She swallowed tears at such a hopeless task, but would not give in to them. She had learned to be a fighter and this was the only chance of a weapon to come her way.

  Chapter 10

  Still, Chastity needed a full goblet of the rich hock before she had enough courage to venture out. Then, with a last reassuring glance at the stranger in the mirror, she cautiously opened the door. The corridor was deserted, though it was only too clear that most of the rooms were still in use. She locked the bedroom door and slipped the key down her bodice, shivering slightly at the chill.

  Or perhaps it was nerves.

  She needed to mingle with the throng below, but didn’t fancy descending the wide main stairs in clear view of anyone who cared to look up. She guessed there would be a lesser staircase at the end of the building and went that way. She found the secondary stairs and encountered only a couple of bosky servants before attaining the ground floor. A short passageway brought her to the edge of the hall.

  It was quieter than it had been when she arrived, and only a half-dozen sleepy or drunk people were sprawled about. She cautiously drifted by them. Five were male. The sixth was an unmasked woman snoring in a man’s arms, but no one she recognized.

  Chastity guessed the other revelers were in the various rooms. Laughter, chatter, and music seemed to swirl from all quarters, but above all echoed singing from the back of the house. It was accompanied by clapping and stamping feet, and occasional roars of approval.

  Chastity had experienced the ripe choral style of Heatherington and his friends, and had no desire for more. She headed in the other direction, the side of the hall closest to where she stood.

  If this house remained as it was built in the days of King James, the rooms would run from one to the other around three sides of the hall. She started at the front.

  She entered a small dining room where two couples were rolling together on the floor. Chastity couldn’t tell who they were, and her nerve wasn’t up to going close enough to find out. She hurried into the next room, a much better populated one.

  This was a gaming room with all the knife-edged intensity to be expected of people who chose cards and dice over bodies. Men and women, masked and unmasked, moved fortunes over the tables, watching cards and dice with feverish, glittering eyes. Chastity shuddered. She’d always seen something evil in gaming.

  Still, she took a deep breath and began to work her way around the room, scrutinizing the players. Heavens, there was old Lady Fanshaw. There was no weapon in that, however. The world knew she was mad for cards and would go to hell itself for a game. In fact, thought Chastity, she would find nothing here. If she revealed that the queen herself was here at play, everyone would yawn.

  As she headed for the next room a hand snared her wrist. “Alone, cara?” She was jerked down onto a middle-aged man’s lap. “Come, bring me luck.” He paddled his plump fingers over her breasts.

  Chastity suppressed an urge to struggle. Nothing was more likely to cause speculation. Instead she collapsed against his chest and draped her hands around his neck. He chuckled and turned his attention back to the game. Chastity watched through the slits of her mask, and when she saw from his avid expression that the hand was approaching a crucial point, she wriggled provocatively and kissed his cheek.

  As she’d planned, he pushed her away. “The devil, woman. I can’t see me cards!”

  She gave a pout and escaped. That had been easy. She had to confess she was beginning to enjoy herself. Behind the anonymity of her disguise, she felt safer than ever in her life. She wasn’t Lady Chastity Ware. She wasn’t a disgraced woman. She wasn’t even Charles. She was newborn.

  Alerted by a shout of laughter, she stopped to look at the play at another table. Here, the stakes were not money at all.

  A black woman was dicing against all comers. Men rolled the dice, but quite a few women watched the game. If a man threw eight or less, the negress added his guineas to the pile before her. If he threw more he kept his gold, and she lowered her bodice a fraction and raised her skirt a good inch. Her pink silk bodice hung on her nipples, exposing most of a magnificent chocolate-colored chest. Her skirt was halfway up her thighs.

  The dicing grew feverish. Chastity too was caught in the fascination of waiting for that bodice to fall. Three men rolled and lost. The negress laughed with a flash of fine white teeth. “Who now, gentlemen? It lacks but ten to the hour. When the clock strikes, I rearrange my clothing and we start all over again.”

  Two more men rushed forward to roll the dice. Again they failed.

  A long white hand adorned with a ruby signet scooped up the ivories. “Your fate has arrived, Sable.”

  Chastity stifled a gasp.

  It was the Marquess of Rothgar.

  He must surely have just arrived, for he was impeccable in crimson brocade trimmed with black. Snowy lace foamed at his neck and wrists. His black hair was unpowdered. His fine, handsome features seemed carved in marble in the flickering candlelight.

  The negress, Sable, grinned. “I win anyway, milord, for if I lose, you win me.”

  Rothgar shook the dice in the box. “How charming. Perhaps I need a house-slave . . .”

  The woman’s grin became predatory. “Not if you value your neck, milord.”

  Rothgar smiled coolly and threw. Two sixes gave him the definitive victory. A roar of approval shook the room.

  Sable scooped all her winnings into a pouch at her belt, then stood. She twitched sinuously and the pink silk of her loose bodice slithered to her waist, evoking a collective groan from the men. Dusky melons in truth, thought Chastity. Rothgar, she noted, looked politely unimpressed.

  Sable slowly inched up her skirt until she was naked to the waist, and tucked it into her waistband. She twisted before all the watchers, revealing a dark, curly thatch between her legs. Then she swayed over to Rothgar and walked her fingers up his chest to his jaw. “Well, milord, would you waste this on scrubbing floors? Did I mention that you only win me for the night?”

  “Alas,” he said, and flicked open a gold snuffbox, “and these floors are not even mine. Your foot, slave.”

  Sable stepped back, and with perfect balance stretched up one leg before him. He placed a pinch of the brown powder on her instep and cupped her heel. He inhaled the snuff, first into one nostril then the other.

  When he straightened his head he retained her heel, keeping her leg stretched up. Sable showed neither physical nor mental discomfort. In fact, perhaps at a signal from him, she swayed over backward, went into a slow handstand, and from there back to her feet facing him. The maneuver gave all the watchers a fine view of her priva
te parts, which were naturally or unnaturally a scarlet red. Cherry nether lips!

  Chastity realized she was gaping and shut her mouth with a snap.

  Rothgar applauded gently. He held out a hand, and as if she had been the finest lady, correctly dressed, led Sable from the room.

  Chastity sucked in a breath. She’d never even imagined anything like that, and it had leeched away her feelings of confidence. She was badly out of her depth in this company. She longed to flee back to her room to hide under the covers and wait for morning.

  But she still had her mission to accomplish and something else to worry about. She didn’t think Rothgar would recognize her, though he had a devilish reputation for omniscience, but she knew Cyn wouldn’t want to bump into his brother here.

  The problem was she couldn’t warn Cyn without destroying her disguise, all of it.

  Sable’s entertainment being over, the watchers were milling around reviewing it. They seemed sated for the moment. Chastity only had to talk her way past two invitations to dalliance as she made her way to a desk in a corner.

  It wasn’t locked and she found paper, pens, and ink. The pen needed trimming and the ink was syrupy, but she managed to scribble Rothgar is here. She folded the note and pushed it down behind her stomacher. If she had the opportunity she’d slip it to Cyn.

  She hurried into the next room, which turned out to be a gallery running across the back of the house. It was being used as a ballroom, if such rompings could be called a ball. A trio scraped away to produce music, but they were deep in their cups and wild in their rhythms. The dancers were equally wild in their moves.

  Here Chastity at last began to gather names for her mental list. Lady Jane Treese, by the stars—the most malicious gossip in England. Meg Cordingly, Susan Fellows, and Letty Proud. The plump redhead would not be so proud if word escaped that she’d been tossed from hand to hand the length of the room, her skirts flying every which way.