Temporary Mistress

by Susan Johnson

  “You still love Bathurst.” Taking out his handkerchief, he carefully held it out to her when he wished he could wipe away her tears himself.

  “I don’t know if I do or not, but I can’t forget him.” Even while she understood all the liabilities in loving Dermott. Her eyes held Joe’s over the crushed linen of his handkerchief. “And you’re not fired. What would I do without you?”

  It was scant comfort for a wounded heart, but he said with good grace, “I’m glad, because I wouldn’t want to leave.”

  She handed his handkerchief back. “So we shall muddle on here at Tavora as best we can.”

  He smiled. “Fair enough.”

  “And I liked your kiss very much,” she softly said.

  “Then, that makes two of us.”

  She laughed. “Good God, life is complicated.”

  “No one ever promised it would be easy.”

  “How selfish of me to whine about every little thing when you’ve literally fought your way to all your successes.”

  “I was lucky to have survived. Tony Marshall didn’t.”

  “Your friend. Molly told me about it.”

  He nodded. “So you see, we’re both lucky to be here enjoying the sunny day and looking forward to more.”

  “We are, aren’t we? And you’re going to take me to Higham and I’m going to buy a great number of bonnets because new bonnets always put me in a good mood.”

  “You’re damned easy to please,” Joe said with a chuckle.

  “Someone else once said that to me,” she murmured.

  He could hear the poignancy in her voice. “Probably not just like that.”

  “No.”

  “Bathurst might not be dead,” he offered, trying to console her. “There’s been no announcement in the papers. While Lonsdale’s obituary and will were both published.”

  “That lack of information does make me hopeful.”

  “Do you want me to try and discover what happened to him?”

  She shook her head. “No. It doesn’t matter, because he didn’t want me in his life.” “The man’s a fool.”

  She smiled. “I agree.”

  The dowager countess’s letter arrived a short time later, having been delayed by the necessary rerouting from Isabella’s London house.

  Isabella was in her boudoir, selecting a bonnet for a drive with Joe, when her lady’s maid answered a knock on the door, took the letter from a footman, and carried it to her. One glance at the name of the sender and Isabella felt a moment of unsteadiness. Forcing her voice to a calmness she didn’t feel, she instructed her maid to tell Joe she’d be down in five minutes, shut the door on her maid’s back, and sank into a chair before her legs gave way.

  Visibly shaking, she held the letter for a few moments, terrified of its contents, fearful it was news of Dermott’s death, not sure it wasn’t easier not knowing. But she had to read it, she knew, so offering up a prayer of hope, she eased the seal apart, spread the sheet of paper open, and swiftly perused the brief sentences for the word “death.”

  None.

  Inhaling with relief, she then began to read from the beginning.

  Dear Miss Leslie,

  Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I wanted to inform you of my son’s feelings for you. As you may know, he’s been severely wounded [Isabella’s heart caught for a moment before the next phrase came into focus] but is now recovering at our home on the Isle of Wight. He feels you may harbor ill will toward him, and I’m very much hoping you don’t. He’s a good boy who’s suffered a great sadness in his past. If you didn’t know of this suffering, I was hoping that knowledge might excuse some of his conduct. He tells me his behavior has been less than chivalrous. Do come and see us. I’d very much like to meet the woman Dermott loves.

  She’d signed her Christian name as though they were already friends.

  Isabella gently traced the word love with her fingertip, happiness flooding her senses. He was alive! And blissfully, he loved her!

  Every tear she’d shed in the past weeks was suddenly irrelevant, all her misgivings and uncertainties, her anger and resentment, wiped away by a single word. Paradise was hers, the entire world was hers, never had the sun shone so gloriously, nor the air felt so pure. Carefully folding the precious letter and placing it in her reticule, she ran from her suite and raced down the stairs, screaming for Joe.

  Waiting with her phaeton in the drive, he accepted her joyful news with good grace, careful to mask his feelings, well aware of where her heart lay. And when Isabella said “I want to leave immediately,” he only asked where.

  “To the Isle of Wight. We’ll have a change of clothes packed for us. I’d like to leave in ten minutes,” she added, intent on departing with all haste.

  Joe only insisted that Mike accompany them, and within the allotted time they were on the road south, carrying only light baggage. And early the next morning, after a long, grueling night on the road, just as the sun began to rise, they came to the ferry that would take them to the island.

  They found Dermott’s house closed except for a small staff of retainers, and Isabella’s spirits, sustained at soaring levels during their journey south, abruptly plummeted.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but his lordship went up to London and the countess be at Alworth,” the housekeeper informed her, taking in the dust-covered state of the visitors’ clothing. “If you’d care to clean up, miss, you’re most welcome, considering the countess called you here.”

  “I must have misunderstood,” Isabella said, flushed with embarrassment, thinking herself the world’s biggest fool for hying south on the merest insinuation Dermott might care. “And thank you, but we have rooms on the mainland,” she fabricated, not about to leave herself open to further embarrassment. What if Dermott were to return and find her there? Whatever his mother’s motives, apparently he hadn’t been informed. And if he were in London, no doubt his health was sufficiently restored that he was back in his old haunts. Having renewed hopes after the countess’s letter that her love was returned, the pain of rejection was now doubly hurtful. And Isabella suppressed her tears only with supreme effort.

  Joe and Mike were politely silent as they returned to the ferry, but they knew she felt as jilted as though she’d been left at the altar.

  Dermott had spent the night in Higham at the King’s Arms, having arrived in the area too late to make a social call. He’d barely slept, and by four, he’d given up even trying. Rising, he dressed himself, not wishing to wake Charles so early, and descending to the public rooms downstairs, he surprised the scullery maids who were just lighting the kitchen fires. Asking for coffee, he sat down in the kitchen and waited, making them extremely nervous. Although, as it turned out, he made the coffee himself. Neither of the young girls was familiar with more than her menial chores, while he’d made many a pot of coffee while out on campaign.

  He was just pouring himself a steaming cup of fresh brew, when the cook came bustling out of her parlor, having quickly dressed when one of the maids came to warn her that a fine lord was making coffee in her kitchen.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said, sweeping a hand over her disordered hair. “Would you like something more with your coffee?”

  “If it’s not too much bother.” Dermott couldn’t possibly call at Tavora House at four-thirty in the morning, so he might as well eat. A bit of fortification for the coming ordeal probably wouldn’t be out of order.

  “Are you here for the races?” the cook inquired as she set about her cooking.

  “Actually, no. I’m visiting.”

  “You have friends in the neighborhood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where might that be?” Mrs. Notkins wasn’t known as the most knowledgeable gossip in Higham without reason. She stood looking at him in expectation of an answer.

  Amused at her catechism, he debated briefly whether his visit required secrecy. And deciding it didn’t, he said, “Tavora House.”

  “Ah. The beautiful Mi
ss Leslie. Such a shame about her poor dear grandfather, but she seems to have company now in her sorrow. A bodyguard,” she reported in a confidential whisper. “Some says it’s her relatives she fears. You’re not one of them, are you?” Mouth pursed, she studied him and then shook her head. “You don’t favor them Leslie men at all. Fat, every one of them, and no one can accuse you o’ that.”

  “She’s often with her bodyguard?” The hair on the back of his neck had risen like hackles.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t she be? He’s there to guard her, and that he does, right and tight. It’s her money, you know,” she added in the same conspiratorial whisper. “Them Leslies want it.”

  And by the time his breakfast had been prepared, he was completely informed of the activities at Tavora House during Miss Leslie’s residence. Mrs. Notkins had a number of relatives on the staff there. Her extended family, native to the area since before the Conquest, she proudly explained, also included several local tradesmen, who added considerably to her knowledge of Miss Leslie’s activities in Higham. In fact, her niece, who owned the milliner’s shop on High Street, was expecting Miss Leslie later that morning for a bonnet fitting.

  “So you might as well wait until she comes into town. That way you won’t meet her on the road. Both herself and that there bodyguard of hers drive at a right fine clip—dangerous, some say. Wouldn’t want you to have no accident coming around a curve on that narrow road.”

  Whether it was the coffee or the information dispensed, by the time he’d finished breakfast, Dermott found himself thoroughly discomposed and agitated. Leaving the King’s Arms, he followed Mrs. Notkins’s directions and walked down High Street to Miss Armistead’s millinery shop. Staring into the window at the bonnets covered with muslin for the night, he wondered what Isabella was doing just then.

  Was she just waking up beside Joe? Was it possible? Had he come so far both in terms of understanding and distance, only to find that Isabella had forgotten him and moved on to another man? Had he waited too long to recognize his heart? He turned from the shrouded display, from the shop, and walked away, plagued by jealousy and doubts.

  Lost in his disconcerting thoughts, he walked the town with unseeing eyes, trying to reconcile the events described to him by the cook at the King’s Arms with his own hopes and dreams. Wandering from street to street, he reflected on the possibilities open to him, on the course he should pursue in the wake of the new information he’d received.

  Not least was concern for his mother. How would she deal with his return should he be unsuccessful in his suit? Would such a setback to her wishes harm the new equilibrium of her life?

  He was personally capable of managing emotional pain. Hadn’t he perfected the art in recent years? But he couldn’t but be aware of the irony of his present situation, after having refused so many females. Perhaps Isabella would take pleasure in rejecting him. Would she even talk to him? he wondered. Or was she so involved with Joe Thurlow, she couldn’t be bothered seeing him?

  In time he became aware of the bustle of businesses opening their doors and shutters and setting up for another day of commerce. Checking his watch, he retraced his steps to the millinery shop on High Street, took up a vantage post across the street, and waited.

  By ten, when she’d not arrived, he questioned the proprietress and was assured Isabella was expected.

  By eleven, Miss Armistead thought perhaps Miss Leslie had had a change in plans.

  By twelve, Dermott agreed and drove out to Tavora House to find her.

  Miss Leslie had left that morning with Joe and Mike, he was told. But Henderson would reveal little else to the man who called himself Lord Bathurst. Whether it was because the entire household knew of the lordship’s ill treatment of Isabella or whether Henderson questioned Dermott’s identity after Joe’s orders to treat all strangers with suspicion, no further information was forthcoming from Tavora House.

  Frustrated, Dermott returned to Higham and offered Mrs. Notkins a substantial sum to discover Isabella’s whereabouts. At first the cook feigned offense, but she could no more resist the lure of so much money than she could resist the delicious gossip she might uncover. The high-and-mighty London nobleman was used to getting his way. And Miss Leslie wasn’t known for her submissiveness. There was the possibility of high drama in the offing.

  But her inquiries revealed only that Isabella had traveled south. Even the staff at Tavora House knew little else. “They left in a great hurry, you see,” she explained to Dermott later that afternoon. “Miss Leslie and her bodyguards took only a change of clothes. Right strange, isn’t it,” she murmured, watching the lordship’s face. And after Dermott’s departure, when she was relating her story to her friends, she said, “And he didn’t look a speck happy with the fact Miss Leslie left with both them men. His nostrils flared considerably, they did, and the tick over his right fine cheekbones were a sight to see. But he paid me like a true gentleman regardless my news weren’t to his liking. Mark my words, when he finds Miss Leslie, none o’ us want to be in her shoes. Not for all the tea in China,” she added dramatically.

  There was no point in fruitlessly searching England for Isabella, Dermott decided, testy and bad tempered at the thought of Isabella with Joe. Particularly after all Mrs. Notkins’s gossip. What was the point?

  He was too late. She’d found someone new. And considering her ready passions, he couldn’t honestly say he was surprised. Isabella was hardly the kind of woman to go through life celibate.

  Perhaps she’d gone to London. The simple luggage they’d taken suggested a short journey. He could find her there if he wished. But after hearing all he’d heard in Higham, he wasn’t inclined to proclaim his love to a woman who’d already transferred her affections to someone else, a man she’d been with for weeks. A man he well knew could satisfy her needs.

  He stood outside the King’s Arms, immune to the bustle of the village, to the passersby who looked at him with the curiosity his fine London tailoring and fashionable air attracted. He felt deflated, irritable, out of temper. The sun was already low in the sky, but despite the late hour, he wasn’t about to spend another night in Higham. And in his current mood he didn’t relish returning to London, the thought of any sort of company distasteful. Only the Isle of Wight offered him the seclusion he sought—his remote home distant from any memories of faithless women.

  Although his mother must be told—which necessitated a detour to Alworth. He fervently hoped his explanation wouldn’t compromise her renewed pleasure in life.

  Dermott rode through the night, hardly taking notice of the rain when it began, oblivious of the physical world, completely absorbed in his discontent. With each unwanted reflection of Isabella and her new beau, his moodiness increased, a chafing resentment overlooking the critical part he played in their ruined relationship.

  His Thoroughbred set his own pace, as though understanding his master’s travail, and only at first light did the black turn his head and whinny—reminding Dermott of the need for rest. When they reached St. Albans shortly after, Dermott made his way to the White Hart, where an ostler led his Thoroughbred away to be dried and fed. After dismounting, Dermott suddenly realized he was soaked through, hungry, and so exhausted, he felt as though he could fall asleep on his feet. Perhaps, he decided, he’d do well to rest a few hours before setting out again. Threading his way through the congestion of vehicles and passengers in the courtyard, he made his way to the inn entrance, his sodden clothes cold on his skin.

  Just short of the veranda that fronted the inn, he came to an abrupt stop, his gaze on a familiar figure lifting two leather satchels from the boot of a mud-stained phaeton.

  Brushing his hand over his eyes, his first thought was that he must be mistaken. It couldn’t be Joe Thurlow. He was tired, fatigue was obscuring his vision. Joe wouldn’t be so far south.

  But when the man turned from the phaeton with the satchels, Dermott went rigid. His pulse rate spiked as Joe strode toward him, a host of ho
tspur questions convulsing his brain, an explosive bitterness and jealousy inundating his senses.

  A second later the two men came face-to-face in the light mist.

  “I don’t suppose you’re traveling alone?” Dermott growled.

  “Are you?” Joe’s voice was cold. “You always have a woman close by, if I recall.”

  “Let’s not fucking play games. Is she with you?”

  “If she is,” Joe curtly said, “I don’t see that it’s any business of yours.”

  “What if I make it my business.” Challenge rang in every word.

  “Haven’t you hurt her enough, Bathurst? I recommend you leave her alone”—Joe smiled tightly—“and get out of my way.”

  “So you can have her for yourself? In Higham, it’s said you two are damned friendly. Why don’t we discuss that?” Dermott silkily murmured.

  “Lonsdale nearly killed you, I hear. You wouldn’t go your usual ten rounds from the looks of things. I’d suggest you walk away while you can.”

  “I’m going to see her, Thurlow, bloodied or not.” Even at his peak, Dermott couldn’t have lasted more than a few rounds with Joe Thurlow, who had taken on all contenders for eight years. “Either way, makes no difference to me.”

  Something unusual in his tone struck Joe’s consciousness. A low-pitched humility, or was it the fact that the depths of Dermott’s eyes held a weariness of spirit he’d never seen before. Or was it simply the recognition that he faced an adversary who would fight to the last extremity? “After the merry chase you led us, I doubt she’ll talk to you, you bastard. She’s been crying since Wight.”

  Astonishment flared in Dermott’s eyes. “What was she doing there?”

  “Looking for you,” Joe spat out. “More fool her.”

  “My mother,” Dermott breathed.

  “And you must have changed your mind,” Joe said in disgust. “Not that I believed it anyway.”

  “I swear, I didn’t know.” Dermott’s anger evaporated; she had gone to see him. “We can argue about my character later.” His tone was more reasonable now. “But I haven’t slept for three days”—he surveyed Joe’s mud-stained clothes—“and you don’t look as though you spent last night in a clean bed either. Could we sheath our swords and let Isabella decide? Or is that a problem for you?” The earl glowered faintly, his jealousy still not completely appeased.