The Scandalous Life of a True Lady

by Barbara Metzger

  “Yes, sir. I mean no, sir.” George tucked the proffered coin into an inner pocket and actually smiled at the bent old man who hobbled around him into the room. Lydia rushed forward and kissed his whiskered cheek. “You devil. Why have you—”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to the young lady you invited me to meet, Lyddie?” the ancient asked, turning to Simone.

  She regretted not seeing his eyes through the thick tinted spectacles he wore, for the reputedly stunning blue would have been the only attractive thing about the elderly officer’s appearance. His voice was pleasant, and his manners were polished as he bowed in her direction. Otherwise, he could have passed for any of her father’s fellow classics scholars, half asleep at their favorite club. He smelled like one, too, of old leather, pipe smoke, and spirits. His clothing, not a uniform, was not in fashion either, although it was well tailored to fit his hunched shoulders and bowed legs. His brown wig belonged to the previous century, as did his silver-streaked beard and moustache. Simone grasped her chair—and her courage—with both hands, as she stood to make her curtsy.

  “Lovely, Lyddie,” he said. “As promised. You have done well.”

  “So I thought. Shall we let Miss Ryland visit the downstairs parlor while we discuss particulars?”

  He laughed. It was a very nice laugh, Simone decided, looking for something to like. And he was intelligent enough not to buy a pig in a poke, suggesting he and Miss Ryland ought to converse a bit first, to see if they could be comfortable together.

  Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “You suit. She is young and attractive, speaks several languages, and has good manners, as I told you.”

  “Ah, but there is more to this, ah, affair, than reading a résumé.”

  “And I wish to be privy to whatever agreement is made,” Simone put in. He wanted honesty? She would not pretend this was anything but a financial arrangement.

  He laughed again. “And she’s bright, Lyddie, and refreshingly straightforward. Run along, do. You know you can trust me to deal squarely with both of you.”

  None too pleased with either of them, Mrs. Burton left in a huff of tight red satin. Harry, Major Harrison, took a seat across from Simone. She pushed a footstool closer, the way she would have done for her papa. She thought he smiled, but it was hard to tell, under all the facial hair.

  “Now that Lyddie is gone,” he said, “we may speak freely. And honestly.”

  She had been warned. “I understand, sir. I was raised to speak truthfully.”

  “Good. I would know a bit more about you, if I may?”

  She nodded, thinking he might ask about her health or her sick room experience, for the gentleman looked more in need of a nursemaid than a mistress.

  “I understand you came to Lydia because you have fallen on hard times, my dear,” he began.

  He wanted honesty? She wanted to flee. Instead she answered: “I would not say I have fallen, more like I’ve been pitchforked into poverty by the death of my parents. I could not keep a position because of fear of molestation, so I am becoming a Jezebel rather than starve.”

  He coughed. “Perhaps that is a bit more information than I asked for. But thank you. You have no other relations?”

  “No.”

  His mouth twisted, as if he’d swallowed something sour, or was bilious. Old men suffered from wind, she knew.

  “I thought we agreed on the truth. Lies leave a bitter taste in my mouth.” He started to rise. “Lyddie was wrong. We cannot suit. Ciao.”

  Simone hadn’t realized they were speaking French until he switched to Italian. So he was testing her, her skills and her readiness to obey orders. That nonsense about truth was an old man’s idiosyncracy—he could not have known about Auguste—but she thought she ought to humor him, to keep Mrs. Burton’s favor. “My apologies. I thought you meant other relatives who might assist me. I have a young brother whose education depends on my income.”

  “And you would not have pursued this line of work otherwise?”

  “I could have made do, I suppose.” Her savings could have bought her more time to find a respectable position, if she had not spent the last few coins on Auggie’s books and board.

  Major Harrison seemed satisfied with her answer, for he sat back and accepted the glass of wine Simone poured from Mrs. Burton’s sideboard. After taking a swallow, he asked, “What if I offered to finance your brother’s schooling?”

  She almost choked on the sip she took. “Why would you do such a thing as that?”

  “Because I can afford to, and because people were good to me when I was young. And because I would not see any woman forced into this kind of life against her will. Lyddie chose her profession, when she had no need to.”

  “But then I would be in your debt. I would still feel that I needed to repay you, in services if not in money. I could not accept an outright gift, not even on my brother’s behalf. I would rather work, at whatever I need to do, than be beholden to charity.”

  “What if I did not wish a martyr in my bed?”

  “I would pretend I was pleased to be there, not out of gratitude.”

  He grimaced at the thought. “That would be worse.”

  “No, for I might enjoy a house party, charming company, the chance to see a famous home where I would never be invited otherwise, a visit to the countryside, perhaps an opportunity to ride again.”

  “Let us begin afresh. Tell me of your family.”

  “Why? I swear no one is going to challenge you over my honor.”

  He chuckled. “Tell me, in truth. More depends on your answer than I can tell you now. And I’ll have investigators checking, before I trust you with explanations.”

  Simone decided the old man was more than eccentric; he was touched in the head. She had no idea why else he would be so obsessed with the truth about a stranger if he were not senile. Heavens, he was hiring a ladybird for a week, not a lawyer! He was waiting, though, staring, she thought, through his green-tinted spectacles. So she repeated her background, this time not leaving out the Gypsy and French heritage that made her mother unwelcome in England. “At first my mother pretended to read fortunes to add to what my father earned as a Latin tutor. They were never well to pass, nor well accepted among the local society, but they were happy together, and our house was full of love.”

  “Could she? Tell fortunes, that is?”

  Now Simone was positive he had bats in his belfry, or in his wig. She did not reply to that bit of nonsense but went on to tell what she knew of the unknown Ryland relations, and about her unfortunate employment history.

  He listened carefully, making no judgments, other than to ask the name of the baron who now wore the mark of her fireplace poker.

  “He will not give me references, you know. Not for any kind of employment.”

  “He will not assault another young woman in his employ,” was all the major said, sending a shiver down Simone’s spine. Then he sipped at his wine, thinking.

  “I have connections,” he finally said, when Simone feared he’d fallen asleep. “I can find you another position, an honest one. And lend you the funds for your brother until he can earn his own way to repay me.”

  “But you do not know me. There is no reason for you to put yourself to that effort.” An effort, she did not say, that no one, not even her father’s relations in distant Cumberland, saw fit to make.

  “As I said, people helped me, people who did not have to. I was not born to a life of advantage, but was given far more than I had any right to expect.”

  “Your parents were poorer than mine, less accepted?”

  “They were not married.”

  “Oh.” Simone knew most illegitimate children were raised as outcasts, if not abandoned. They were often ostracized worse than those with Gypsy blood. “I am sorry.”

  “Do not be. I was taken in by a wonderful family, the Harrisons, and made to feel like their own son. My true father smoothed my path with education and introductions, although his kindness co
st him the trust of his own family. I have tried to show that same kindness to others, to live as the gentleman he is, in tribute to him. Leading a woman into the life of a demi-rep does not suit my notions of honor.”

  He might be crazy, Simone decided, but Major Harrison, Harry, was a dear. No wonder the girls at Mrs. Burton’s establishment all liked him. “I thank you for the caring, but I have made my own decisions. Working as a governess or companion will never give me a home of my own or any kind of future except a pension when I am retired, with luck. And you cannot guarantee my safety from employers like the baron.”

  “No, but this life is not without perils of its own. Would you still be willing to attend the house party as my companion if there was danger involved?”

  She edged further back in her seat. The sweet old man might be more deranged than she thought. “Danger to me?”

  His bushy brows drew together. “I do not believe so, but that is possible. I would do all in my power to ensure your safety.”

  What would he do, hit an attacker with his cane? The whole idea was absurd. “What danger could there be at a polite house party?”

  “As I said, explanations must wait, but there is more to this gathering than a sennight’s holiday in the country. I have made enemies. Threats have been made against my life.”

  “Truly?”

  “I never lie. I do not always tell all of the truth, because a good card player never shows his full hand, but I do not lie. There will be danger. Almost certainly.”

  “Then I cannot go with you.” Her regret surprised even herself. A week out of London, away from her worries, with an amiable old man had sounded attractive. “I could not chance leaving my brother alone in the world with no family if I were hurt, with no one to care for him.”

  “I understand your concern, yet you would be perfect for the position. Your skill at languages, the hint of something exotic in your appearance, the fact that you would be unknown to everyone. That is just what I need.” He set his wine glass aside and steepled his fingers, which were long and graceful, not gnarled or age spotted, she noticed. After a moment he asked, “What if I arranged for a guardian for the boy, should the worst happen?”

  Simone started to shake her head but Major Harrison went on: “An earl, who I swear would see to his future.”

  “An earl?”

  “Now that I think on it, Lord Royce is not in the best of health, nor young enough. His son, Viscount Rexford, would be willing to take on the responsibility.”

  “I think you must be dreaming, sir, or you have had too much wine. An earl? A viscount? What have they to do with a boy who is part Gypsy, part French, and entirely impoverished?”

  “They are…friends of mine. I can have legal documents for you to sign before we leave for Richmond.”

  “Then you would take me?”

  “I am torn. Leading a young lady into a life of debauchery and dissipation is against my principles, as is entangling an innocent in dangerous pursuits.”

  Simone prayed the life of a courtesan was not as degrading as he made it out to be. She was not standing on a street corner, after all, nor sharing her body with countless men each night in a brothel like Mrs. Burton’s employees. “You would treat me well,” she said, with conviction.

  “Of course. Yet this is not how you wished to lead your life, is it?”

  “No, and that is the truth.” She hated the idea, in fact. She could not trust the largesse of a lunatic old man, though. His family might protest his support of an unknown student. For all she knew, his family could lock him in Bethlehem Hospital before he paid Auguste’s tuition. “I require the money I can earn, however.”

  “And I unfortunately require just such a female as you appear to be: loyal, intelligent, able to follow instructions, honest and brave.”

  “I am not brave.”

  He licked his lips. “Sweet. Will you come, knowing the danger, knowing you cannot go back to being a governess, knowing this is a temporary arrangement only?”

  The more Major Harrison tried to convince her otherwise, the more, perversely, she was sure of her decision. “Yes, I will go with you, if you answer a question for me. Mrs. Burton warned me about not intruding on your private life, but can you at least tell me if you are married? I do not know if I can do this, if I would be injuring another woman so.”

  “No, there is no Mrs. Harrison pining for me. I have hopes to wed in the future, but not now, with unfinished business.”

  Simone had to hide her own smile at the dodderer’s optimism. What in the world was he waiting for? She wondered if he could still father a child and, for that matter, why he needed a mistress. She decided she might as well ask while he was permitting such license.

  “The house party requires it. Lord Gorham’s mistress wishes to play hostess to a select gathering. I need to attend, to face the threats against me.”

  “Why not simply avoid them?”

  “And let danger come at me in the dark? No, I choose to face my enemies, not take a knife in the back.”

  “The party could be so perilous?”

  “That is not the half of it.”

  “Then I want twice the fee. You need me.”

  Chapter Four

  He needed her.

  No, he needed a female like her. Otherwise he could take one of Lyddie’s girls and be done with it. He’d have a pretty bit of fluff on his arm with less effort, less money, and less on his conscience. He’d also make less of an impression as a connoisseur of woman, a man with exquisite taste and deep pockets. He needed a ladybird who was almost a lady, one who would have everyone talking, to create a stir heard back in London. For once, Harry sought the publicity, the notoriety, with everyone and his uncle knowing precisely where he was and with whom. Then Major Harrison could die.

  Miss Ryland was perfect, too perfect, unfortunately. No matter that every head would turn when she walked into a room, he could not turn a well-bred woman into a whore. If he didn’t, though, Lyddie would, so what would his scruples and sacrifice have accomplished? Nothing. Furthermore, Miss Ryland herself seemed determined on the course. She had problems too, and lofty principles could not outweigh bare necessity. She needed money; Harry needed a mistress. Both of them were in a hurry.

  Harry watched her as she watched him, wishing he knew what she was thinking, how she wanted him to decide. Then he recalled that he was done making decisions for others. His half-brother had pummeled the fact into him that he was not always correct in what he thought best for everyone else. No matter that he thought himself omniscient, Rex had said while Harry lay bleeding on the canvas at Jackson’s Boxing Parlor, he did not have the right to play god with anyone else’s life. Of course Harry had let the younger man win the match; Rex was lame in one leg, after all.

  He could make provision for Miss Ryland and the brother. That was no problem. He could even leave her as chaste as he found her. That might be a problem, for the woman was exquisite. Her reputation would be destroyed, though, and he knew how precious that was to a female.

  But damn, she was stunning enough to make headlines in the gossip columns, and smart enough to listen to whispered conversations in whatever language.

  Harry wanted to be done with this scheme, with all intrigue, for all times. The war was over, his days as spymaster in the Intelligence Division of the War Office were almost at an end. He wanted to retire, by Zeus, not live in shadows and disguises and under aliases for the rest of his life.

  He saw how happy his half-brother Rex was, with his lovely wife Amanda helping him recover from his war wounds, both mental and physical. Why, they had twins already, a boy and a girl, that Rex doted on. Harry was jealous, not just of the infants, but of the peace he felt surrounding the viscount and his wife at the christening.

  Harry hadn’t wanted to attend the event at all. What, the bastard brother waving his bar sinister at the church for all to see? His presence would have embarrassed everyone. But Rex had insisted, and their father, the Earl of
Royce, had written his hopes of seeing all of his family, sons and grandchildren, together. Even Lady Royce, his father’s wife, had written a polite letter of invitation herself. The countess, Harry knew, felt guilty for keeping the half-brothers apart so long. Some women would have taken their husband’s by-blow into their homes to raise. Not Lady Royce. She’d left the earl and her own son, instead. Now that she and Lord Royce were reconciled, secure in their own marriage at last, she could be forgiving of the boy—a man now, of over thirty years—for coming between them through no fault of his own.

  Harry still might have refused the invitation to the family’s ancestral home, where he would never be part of the true family, but Cousin Daniel had insisted they’d all be offended otherwise. Daniel reported that his own mother wanted to meet her new nephew, his sister was excited when she heard he was as handsome as the other Royce males, with the same dark coloring and unique black-rimmed, blue eyes. She wanted to show him off to her girlfriends, which would have been enough to keep Harry in London, except Amanda, Rex’s wife and the sweetest woman he knew, had asked him to stand as godfather to the boy. He could not refuse.

  Daniel was godfather to the girl. He started weeping the instant that tiny scrap of lace and love was placed in his arms. Everyone laughed except Harry, feeling the tears well up in his own eyes, to see them reflected in matching blue ones with the dark rim. A baby, born in harmony, wanting for nothing, his future assured. Oh, lucky Rex, and oh, how Harry wanted that peace, that promise, a son, for himself.

  And that was the truth. It was as sweet as honey, as sweet on his tongue as nectar.

  Miss Ryland coughed, and he came back from his wool-gathering to wonder what her lips would taste like.

  He sighed. Such thoughts were for another tomorrow. Today was for finding out the truth, the way the Royce men always had, always could. Rex saw colors, true-blue for honesty. The earl heard notes of discord for lies. Poor Daniel got rashes at untruths. And he, Harry, the illegitimate son, could taste a falsehood.

  The odd, unheard of gift of truth-knowing made them all invaluable to the country. Lord Royce acted in the legal system; Rex and Daniel had been the Inquisitors on the Peninsula, interrogating prisoners to find the enemy’s secrets, secrets that could keep the generals informed and the soldiers safe. Recently Rex had been a huge help to Bow Street’s police force before he left London for his wife’s confinement and the infants’ births. He’d do more when he returned to Town. They all worked in secrecy, of course, for the talent was too close to sorcery or witchcraft or magic for the public’s comfort. Or for Daniel’s. He was determined to sow his wild oats in London, then become a gentleman farmer, where only nettles could make him break out in hives. He had no interest in serving the country in time of peace, only in carousing his way through the city’s underworld. Harry could sympathize, but he had plans for Daniel anyway. The gift was too important to waste on barmaids, brawls, or barley crops.