Lady in Blue

by Lynn Kerstan

  Clare could barely keep up with her. “I am not your brother’s mistress,” she said after a moment.

  “Oh, dear.” Isabella wrinkled her pert nose. “I have blundered.”

  “Not … precisely. Lord Heydon is doing a favor for a friend. I am his mistress.”

  “No, no, don’t tell me. Let me guess.” She stomped her foot. “Botheration! This is all too easy. The chef gives it away. Bryndle must have sent him.”

  “B-Bryndle?”

  “I expect he hasn’t told you his nickname. Doesn’t like it, which is why we take pains to use it at every opportunity. Considering your relationship, Miss Easton, you might do well to refrain, but then one always blurts out the exact words one is trying not to say. Bound to happen. Just don’t tell him where you first heard it. That will be our secret … one of many, I expect. You have a great many secrets, do you not?”

  For once in her life, Clare was unable to repress her amusement. It gurgled up, past her embarrassment and self-control, past both hands pressed over her mouth, erupting in a laugh so light and charming it found an echo.

  Countess and mistress giggled like two schoolgirls, neither quite sure what they were laughing at. At last, wiping tears from her eyes, Clare found her voice. “Do you know everything?” she asked, awestruck. “I daresay you do. I feel I’m being pried open like a clamshell. Does anyone manage to withstand your inquisitions?”

  “Not if I persevere. It’s rather like fencing: a bit of dancing around, now and again a partial engagement, and then voilà—ze lunge for ze throat!” This was accompanied by a dramatic swoop. “You see, you’ve dropped your guard. May I call you Clare?”

  “Yes, of course.” When she sniffled, Isabella opened her reticule and passed Clare a lace-edged handkerchief. It was lavender, and scented with lavender water, which set Clare laughing again. It was years since she’d laughed so long and so loud, and oh, it felt good. “But you ought not be speaking to me at all, Lady Isabella.”

  “Whyever not? Don’t think to stand on ceremony with me, Clare. I shan’t permit it. In the normal course of things we are unlikely to meet, but if good fortune brings us together, as it has today, it would be a crime not to enjoy each other’s company. I will ask you to call me Isabella, though I really wish you’d call me Izzy. But by all means choose an address you feel comfortable with. Bryndle prefers Dizzy.”

  Feeling dizzy herself, Clare leaned back in the chair and smiled weakly. Friendship with this comet was impossible, but she had never been so instantly drawn to anyone. Except Florette, she thought, her smile fading. You are a whore, she reminded herself. You will burn in hell.

  A warm hand touched her forearm. “Have I offended you? I don’t mean to. It’s just that I’ve known Bryn all my life, and he’s nearly as much a brother to me as Robert.”

  “As Lord Caradoc’s sister or his friend, you can scarcely approve of me.”

  “But no one has called on me to approve or disapprove, except you. In truth, were you not such a snob, I could like you enormously.”

  Clare sat forward. “A snob?”

  “My, yes.” Lady Isabella shrugged prettily. “Likely I am not respectable enough for you. Or perhaps you are offended because I too have seen Bryn naked as a newborn babe.”

  “But I haven’t se—” She clamped her lips shut.

  “Truly? Excuse me, but how can that be? The man is never shy, and why would he be, with that glorious physique?”

  Clare’s cheeks felt hot enough to roast potatoes. “I have not yet … taken up my duties.”

  “Duties?” It was Isabella’s turn to whoop with laughter. But when she spoke again, her tone was remorseful. “In that case, I have embarrassed you and I apologize most sincerely. My tongue has a mind of its own, and not a very wise one.”

  “You mustn’t apologize to me, Lady Isabella. And truly, I am not a snob. But everyone I meet seems to take my position so … nonchalantly.”

  “Except you.”

  “Yes. I am not sure how to behave, or what to say, or to whom I ought to speak at all. Mr. Lyle scares me to death.”

  “The hauteur of otherwise excellent servants with irreplaceable skills can be most annoying,” Isabella agreed. “And no one is more temperamental than a chef. But never allow yourself to be intimidated, Clare. We all came onto this earth naked and squalling. The next time anyone dares look down his nose at you, just imagine him a baby with a soiled nappy.”

  Clare tried, and failed, to picture the Earl of Caradoc as an infant.

  Isabella pulled out her fan. “I ought to explain that when I saw Bryn in the altogether, I was four years old. He and Lace had been riding and chose to take a dip in a small lake where I happened to be playing.” She grinned. “Naturally I purloined their clothes and left them two miles from home bare-bummed as the day they were born. It is one of my fondest memories. Their revenge is not such a fond recollection, but we’ll save that for another day. May I quiz you a bit more, Clare? Why are you here and not at Clouds?”

  “It is being decorated,” she answered, welcoming the change of subject. “Your brother expects the work to be completed soon, and meantime Caradoc has stored me here.”

  “Robert has excellent taste,” Isabella said. “I’m sure you’ll approve the results. And Bryn is colorblind, of course. I expect he didn’t choose that gown, which is very becoming. Is my brother supervising your wardrobe too?”

  Clare fingered the soft apricot muslin, quite the nicest dress she’d ever worn. “I’ve been turned over to a dressmaker with a French accent more phony than—” she almost said “Florette’s” and bit her tongue. “Tomorrow I am scheduled for a dancing lesson and a trip to the circulating library, if his lordship has time. This afternoon I am to select a maid.” She shook her head. “As if I’d know how.”

  “Choose a girl you like,” advised Lady Isabella. “Maids are always underfoot, and a companionable maid can be taught skills while a skillful one cannot be grafted with a pleasing personality.” She glanced at a clock, set incongruously in the forehead of a primitive mask hung over the fireplace. “I must be off,” she said briskly, drawing a small gold case from her reticule and pulling out an engraved card. “This is where I live. If ever I can do something for you, please send word or come to me directly. I mean that, Clare Easton.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “I mean that,” she said again.

  From instinct, or desperation, Clare seized the offer. “You can help me now,” she blurted, “if it can be a secret.”

  “I knew we’d have secrets,” Isabella exclaimed with clear delight. “And I sniffed a mystery from the moment I saw you.” She leaned forward eagerly. “What can I do?”

  Clare’s hands twisted in her lap. “I need something delivered to a friend that cannot be trusted to the post, and no one must know about it.”

  Frowning, Isabella shook her head. “I can do nothing to betray Bryn.”

  “Of course not. I would never ask such a thing of you.”

  Isabella studied her intently for a long moment and nodded. “In that case, I’ll be glad to see it delivered. Shall I take it with me now?”

  Clare popped from her chair. “Oh, yes, if you will. Just let me get it and write some directions. I’ll be back in a moment.” She sped upstairs, returning minutes later with a large envelope. “You cannot go yourself,” she said, handing it to Isabella. “My friend is at a postinghouse on the outskirts of London. But please send someone you trust completely.” She stared at the envelope, watching Isabella fold it in half and place it in her reticule.

  “I shall deliver it personally,” Lady Isabella informed her. “It will be a small adventure, and you have my word I shall tell no one. Naturally, you’ll owe me a favor in return. Shall we say another of Lyle’s excellent luncheons, perhaps Thursday next, during which I shall regale you with the success of my mission? Send word when you know your plans, Clare. I am counting on it.”

  Clare gazed at her self-consciously.

  “Use a footman, my de
ar. If you are to remain any time with Bryn, you must accustom yourself to luxury. He can afford to provide it, and it gives him pleasure to do so.”

  With that the improbable vision took her leave, carrying in her purse a bank draft representing ten thousand guineas of the earl’s pleasure.

  8

  Later that afternoon, Bryn entered Ernestine’s house through the back door. It had been three long days since he delivered Clare, with equal stealth, to the mansion on Grosvenor Square, and he was wild to see her again.

  A servant led him to the music room, where Clare was seated at the piano plunking a discordant tune. She was wearing gloves, he noticed, but when had he ever seen her without them?

  She stood immediately when the butler announced him. God, he’d thought her lovely wearing that heavy blue dress, but in a pale muslin gown with puffed sleeves that left her arms bare, she was breathtaking. Her long hair hung in a thick braid down her back, soft tendrils drifting over her ears and forehead.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said simply.

  “My lord,” she replied, her gaze focused on the carpet.

  Not sure what to do next, he gestured to the piano bench. “Please go on. I am partial to music. Play a bit myself, actually.” When he moved closer, she resumed her place on the bench with her hands folded in her lap.

  “I’ve not touched a piano for many years,” she said. “This is a wonderful instrument.”

  He sat next to her, deliberately moving close. Her thigh felt warm and tense. “Do you like music then?” he inquired, rippling his fingers over the keyboard. “I learned to play as a boy but have forgot what little I knew. We can have a piano at Clouds if you like. In fact, that’s an excellent idea. I’ll find a teacher for you.”

  Flushing, Clare said nothing.

  “Lacey tells me we can move you over on Saturday next. Several of the downstairs rooms will not be finished, but he expects the bedroom to be ready.”

  She erupted from the bench and fled to the bay window, arms clutched around her waist.

  A woman condemned to the gallows might react like that. In silence he watched her take hold of herself, and when she turned around, her smile was pleasantly impersonal. He sighed.

  “Excuse me a moment,” she said. “I’ll arrange for tea. Unless you prefer something else?”

  “Tea will be fine.” She might have pulled the bell cord inches from her hand, but he knew she was looking for an excuse to leave the room. When the door closed, he let his fingers move over the keyboard, falling naturally into a haunting folk melody.

  Was he handling this all wrong? He’d been so busy setting her up and rigging her out that he’d scarcely spent five minutes alone with her since their meeting at Clouds.

  In part, that was essential. It was dangerous to be with her until he reclaimed control of himself. From experience he knew that virgins were inevitably nervous, even apprehensive, about the first night. But Clare was downright terrified, and growing more so each day the final accounting was delayed. Ought he carry her upstairs and have done with it? He banged a loud chord and stalked away from the piano, combing his fingers through his hair. Part of him thought it a good idea. All of his body thought so.

  She wouldn’t want to do it in Ernie’s house, of course. She didn’t even like staying here. And he could not repeat the mistake of taking her into his own mansion at St. James’s Square. That part of his life must remain separate.

  A hotel, perhaps. He knew an elegant and discreet establishment frequented by gentlemen and their lovers, although he’d never been there himself. But the idea of making love to Clare on mattresses and pillows used by others disgusted him. He could imagine her repulsion if they slunk into a hotel for an afternoon tumble.

  Clare deserved better. The first time should be special. Memorable. So good it would make her want more. If he escorted her upstairs, or to a hotel, she’d be gone by sunrise, and there had not been time for the Runners to trace her background. Worse, Florette had disappeared, without so much as a goodbye. Whatever she knew about Clare had gone with her.

  No, the first plan was best. He would ease her gently into an enduring relationship. Past time he learned how to court a woman, he reflected. He’d never done so before, but why should an expensive mistress require wooing and seducing? He was an attentive lover, which ought to suffice.

  But Clare was … Clare. And worth any degree of trouble. He had five days to entice her into his bed, more if necessary, but she’d be expecting him to claim her Saturday night. By then it was unlikely he’d be able to resist.

  Bryn heard the door open and returned to the piano, trying to play the song that had come so effortlessly to his fingers when he wasn’t thinking about it. This time the results were not so good.

  A maid placed a tray on a table near the piano and left with a curtsy.

  “I prefer tea without milk and with a great deal of honey,” he told Clare, stealing a glance at her as she followed his instructions. She added nothing to her own cup, he noted. “Tonight,” he said, after tasting the tea and nodding approval, “we shall go to the opera.”

  Her cup rattled in its saucer. Deliberately, she set it on the tray. “I do not wish to appear in public, my lord. That was not part of our agreement.”

  Standing, he held out his hand. “Come here, Clare.” He led her to a small divan and sat beside her at an angle so he could see her face. “We must talk,” he said gently. She stared back at him, her gaze somber. “Tell me what is troubling you, my dear. Have I said something, or done something, to make you afraid?”

  “You have been all that is kind,” she said in an expressionless voice. “I simply do not wish to go where people can look at me.”

  “Do you think to hide away at Clouds twenty-four hours a day?” He regarded her speculatively. “Or is it that you expect to be there only twenty-four hours?”

  Her lips tightened.

  “I realize,” he said carefully, “that you have made me no promises beyond the first night. Perhaps you are unable to think any further, and for that I am sorry. Things have not been as I hoped, and the delay is unsettling to us both.”

  “Yes.”

  So guarded, he thought, massaging her palm with his thumb. So many barriers between them, like these damned gloves. She never took them off, not when she stripped naked for him that morning in his study, not even when she played the piano. Curious, he began to peel the supple leather from her wrist.

  She recoiled, snatching her hand from his grasp as if he’d burned her.

  He raised a quizzical brow. “Only your glove, princess. No more than that.”

  “Please don’t,” she said, clearly distressed.

  After a moment, he held out his own hand. “I rather think I must. Come, my dear, let me see what you are hiding.”

  In the long silence that followed, he thought she was going to refuse him—and wondered how he would react if she did. But finally, her arm trembling, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to remove the glove.

  Her fingers were long and slender, the nails clipped short. A lovely hand, he was thinking as he turned it over and caught sight of the palm. “My God,” he whispered between clenched teeth. “Who did this to you?”

  She stared at a spot over his shoulder, her face impassive. “I was punished, for insolence and disobedience. Mostly for my ungovernable temper. It was a long time ago.”

  “By your father?” he demanded.

  She shook her head. “Papa was the sweetest man ever lived. He could not step on a spider.”

  “Tell me, Clare. I’ll persist until you do.”

  She released a sigh. “It was my stepmother. And she had been hurt, by someone she loved before she married Papa. I suspect she went a little mad.”

  “Bloody hell, how could any man let a child be whipped like this? Why didn’t your father protect you?”

  “He died soon after they were married, Bryn. And she’s dead too, so what does any of it matter now? Besides, I deserved to be
punished. I could do nothing to please her, and after a while I stopped trying. She never beat me unless I defied her openly.” She met his gaze steadily, as if they were discussing the weather. “I should warn you, my lord. The bottoms of my feet are marked in the same way.”

  Her face became a blur. Gripped by a fierce rage, he lowered his head and kissed the webbing of scars on her hand. Then he pressed her palm to his chest, over his heart. “I would avenge you if I could, butterfly, and comfort you if I knew how, but I feel as helpless as you must have been when your stepmother took a cane to you. Only remember, you are not responsible, in any way, for her cruelty. I forbid you to blame yourself.” His lips quirked. “If insolence and bad temper merited a whipping, I would be scarred from head to toe by now.”

  “Perhaps you will be,” she replied with a touch of spirit. “Later in this life, or the one hereafter.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said appreciatively. “From now on, I hope you’ll not wear those gloves when we are alone together.” Once again, he pressed his lips to the scars. “And since you have gifted me with a confidence, in all fairness I should return one of my own. What would you like to know?”

  “Gifted?” she inquired with a delicately arched brow.

  “As you say. I forced the issue. But this is your chance to do the same, so fire away.” He leaned back and folded his arms behind his head, prepared for the worst.

  “Very well,” she said primly. “I should like to know precisely why you will only bed a virgin.”

  He winced. “I ought to have expected that question. And you have a right to know, I suppose, although I don’t like explaining the reasons. Especially to an innocent girl. What do you know of the pox, Clare?”

  Her eyes widened. “I’ve heard of it, or perhaps read about it. Is it like smallpox?”

  “No. I refer to syphilis, which is contracted by having carnal knowledge of someone who has the disease. Any man or woman who is profligate gambles with the devil. Prostitutes, and the men who seek them out, risk their lives every time money changes hands. Even one encounter with an infected lover can be a sentence of death. For that reason I take only virgin mistresses and demand fidelity while they are under my protection.” He gazed at the ceiling. “Does that answer your question?”