The Scandalous Life of a True Lady

by Barbara Metzger

  As for himself, Harry was usually tucked away in hidden offices, in wigs and disguises when he went out. He was the Aide, a state secret onto himself. Half myth, half truth, he could sift through all the gathered intelligence and recognize the truth. He had fingers in every aspect of military or political or criminal life, in everything that could threaten his country. Recently he’d dealt with smugglers, embezzlers, and spies, French sympathizers all.

  Now Napoleon was gone, and the Aide could be, too. Then Harry might make a real life for himself, as himself. The house party was the key. Harry Harmon, Lord Royce’s bastard son, was invited now that he was acknowledged by his powerful father. He’d go, raffish Harry, and Major Harrison would stay behind. An assistant was already fitted for the right clothes, the wig and beard and moustache. The man wouldn’t be in actual danger despite the death threats—Harry would not have let another man take a bullet meant for him—but he’d die anyway. He’d suffer a heart spasm spectacularly, loudly, visibly, right there on the steps of Whitehall for everyone to see. He’d be carried inside, physicians sent for, for naught. Harry had the obituary already written.

  Farewell, Major, with all your enemies. Welcome, Harry Harmon, rakehell from the wrong side of the blanket. No one could connect the two, not when Harry was conducting a torrid affair at Lord Gorham’s party in Richmond. He’d be safe and done with intrigue, ready for the rest of his life.

  Of course Harry Harmon wasn’t his real name, either, but it was close enough. The son of an unwed opera-dancer, he could not carry the Royce family name, naturally, except Ivy Harmon had written Royce on the birth records anyway. He was Royce Harmon, a name which would have kept the scandal of his birth on everyone’s lips, and in the mud, for all time. The Earl of Royce had been too generous to Harry for such a blatant affront, and his lady wife deserved far better. The ton was willing to endure if not wholeheartedly accept Harry Harmon into their midst. He was not quite proper, but raised a gentleman and wealthy in his own right, with excellent connections. But Royce, son of Royce? No.

  So he was Harry Harmon in public these days, a rakish young man about town. He was the soon-to-expire Major Harrison at the War Office; middle-aged Mr. Harris at McCann’s club; Harry the footman there on occasion; Harold the coach driver; Hal the beggar. Sometimes he forgot who he was.

  That was not by choice. The Crown commanded, and his loyalty to his country governed his actions. Even now, more than his own life was at stake. Harry was willing to let the Aide die with Major Harrison; the Prince Regent was not. So while Harry was indulging in debauchery in the countryside, he’d also be trying to recover letters from a blackmailer. Oh, and listening for rumors from dissatisfied men who had supported Bonaparte’s efforts, and hoped to free him from exile to retake France. That was where Miss Ryland’s education came in. No one expected a courtesan to be conversant in so many languages; no one was as careful of their whispers when they were full of wine, their arms full of woman. So Harry would be serving his country even while he entertained a female of respectable past and questionable future.

  All depended on if she were trustworthy, naturally, because he’d have to explain his work—and his altered identity—to enlist her cooperation. She could be invaluable to him, or she could be the worst threat of exposure he’d ever faced. Time would tell, and his truth-knowing.

  Meanwhile, for the possible gains, for the risk, double her fee was fair. “How much were you earning as a governess?” he asked.

  Simone assumed he’d base his offer on that, so she added ten pounds to her yearly wage, which was nothing but a pittance anyway.

  Harry stood up, too quickly for an old man, but he was too angry, yes, and too disappointed, to care. The money was of no account, nothing more than a bit of loose change. The lie was his whole life. He tasted bitter almonds, almost like arsenic in his mouth. “I will not deal with untruths. I told you. Lyddie told you. You said you understood. I am sorry you did not understand the value of honesty. Good day, Miss Ryland, and good luck to you.” He reached for his purse, intending to toss the lying wench a coin to tide her over until she found some gullible pigeon to pay her rent.

  She jumped up and grabbed his cane before he could reach for it, thinking that would stop him. “No, wait. Please, Major Harrison. I am sorry. It was desperation making me exaggerate my pay. Surely you can see that? My grandfather was a horse-trader. I told you, didn’t I? Never leave yourself without a bargaining point, he always said. I swear I shall never lie to you again.”

  Now Harry tasted something like wine, sherry perhaps. She meant what she said, at least. She might not hold to her oath, but she meant it, which was something.

  “I think we should take a few days to decide if this is what we both want,” he said, buying time to investigate the Ryland connection, that baron’s household, her landlady’s impressions, and her own ability to keep a promise. He was not fool enough to take an unknown female into his confidence, no matter how pretty or how needy. He had to reveal too many secrets, not all of them his. “I can meet you here in a few days. Shall we say Friday?”

  Simone’s rent was due on Thursday. “I…I fear I cannot wait that long. I need to find employment immediately if I am to keep my lodgings. They are not much, but they are clean and safe.”

  That was a porridge-tasting half-truth. Harry raised a bushy eyebrow. “How safe?”

  She stared at the cane in her hands. “The downstairs lodger is…unsettling.”

  Hell, another cur to bring to heel. Harry could see where dealing with every man who had designs on Miss Ryland could be a full-time occupation.

  “You shall not go back there. I have a house”—he had several; Harry Harmon often stayed at one—“in Kensington where you can stay.”

  Simone knew gentlemen often kept their ladybirds in love nests in Kensington, close enough for quick visits, far enough from Mayfair to be discreet. “How can I stay at your house if we are not…not…”

  “Well enough acquainted yet?” he politely supplied for her, taking his cane out of her hands. “I also have rooms at my club.” The apartment at McCann’s was private, hidden, and well guarded, but it was no place for a lady, or a woman he did not have full confidence in. “I can stay there until we come to an agreement. My secretary Mr., ah, Harris, will not mind staying in Kensington for a few days to assist you.”

  “But—”

  He twirled the cane in the air, stifling her protests. “If we do decide to attend the house party together, you’ll need a new wardrobe, won’t you? I doubt a governess’s salary extended to the several ball gowns required for that elevated company. Do you possess a stylish riding habit, since you wish to ride?”

  She could only shake her head. The only fashionable, nay, the only passable, gown she had was the borrowed one she wore. “I hadn’t realized how complicated this would be. Or how costly.”

  Harry had. He knew his companion had to be elegant and expensively dressed for this to work. Lord Royce’s bastard had to be seen as an extravagant wastrel, a devil-may-care hedonist no one would suspect of having a serious thought, much less a spymaster’s convoluted mind. “Harris can arrange for a seamstress to come to the house. I would not wish you out and about before we leave for Richmond, if we are to go.” He would not want her gossiping with friends, mentioning his name, telling her landlady about her windfall. What he said was: “I’d fear some other man might catch your fancy. The dressmaker will know what is suitable.”

  “Or Mrs. Burton,” she began.

  They both recalled the red satin Lydia was stuffed into.

  “No, I trust you and Harris and the dressmaker he’ll select.”

  “But the money, sir. I cannot afford anything such as you suggest.”

  “Consider the new wardrobe my token of honorable intent. That is, my dishonorable intent, I suppose I should say. The fripperies will be yours to keep whatever we decide.”

  “I do not know if I can accept such a gift.”

  “My dear, yo
u truly must determine once and for all if you wish to pursue this new path. Accepting gifts is precisely what a mistress does best. Well, perhaps not best, but she never turns down a bauble or an opportunity to feather her own nest. She never makes a gentleman feel that he has stepped over the line of propriety, either. That is what wives are for. Besides, have you never heard that it is better to give than to receive? I will have the pleasure of seeing a pretty woman dressed as her beauty deserves.”

  Simone blushed. “You are too kind.”

  Harry recalled he was not supposed to sound like a flirtatious mooncalf yet. He made an old man’s “Harrumph” and told her that Harris would see to everything. He also offered to send a man to fetch her things from across the street. “That way you need not face the boarder, or the landlady.”

  In her new finery, either would have been awkward, so Simone accepted still more of the major’s generosity. “There is not much. A trunk, a few gowns on hooks, my toilet articles on the night stand. Oh, and a parcel of letters from my brother. I should not want to lose those.”

  And Harry would not mind reading them, to see that all was as she’d said. “Done. I’ll make arrangements with Mr. Harris, then send a carriage back for you. I think it best we not leave together, don’t you?”

  With Mrs. Olmstead likely sitting by her parlor window? “Definitely.”

  He took her hand in his. “Excellent. And we shall speak again in a few days, yes?”

  “I hope so, if we are to get to know each other.” How else were they to decide to become roommates, bedmates, lovers? Simone doubted most liaisons were conducted from afar, but she understood that, along with accepting gifts, a kept woman kept her mouth shut. She did not disagree with her protector or tell him he was the strangest man she had ever met. She certainly did not pull away, even if his beard tickled her hand when he raised it to his lips. At the soft touch of his kiss, she pictured a younger, far more handsome man, tall and dark-haired, with startling blue eyes, the Harry of her wishful thinking. Maybe she was imagining Major Harrison in his younger days. He was definitely not young enough now for her to brush at the white hairs on his dark coat sleeve, the way she would have done for her brother. She supposed she could show concern for him, though. “You will be safe until then?”

  He smiled, or she thought he did under the heavy moustache. “Now you are sounding just as a mistress ought, concerned about next week’s bills.”

  “No, sir, I recall the danger you spoke of.”

  “I know, my dear. I was teasing. My, we do have a great deal to learn about each other, don’t we? I promise to explain more when I see you. Rest assured you will be in no peril at the Kensington house. Mr. Harris will guarantee it. And I have not forgotten about your brother’s schooling. Mr. Harris will handle that also if you give him the proper address. I shall send a messenger to Lord Rexford for that other document’s signature.”

  “If nothing does happen to me, this viscount will not have any hold over Auguste, will he?” She could not imagine what a viscount would want with a bookish youth, but had to be certain. Auguste was her brother, and she would not let any disinterested nobleman send him off to the Navy or the East India Company to be rid of the responsibility.

  “Nothing will happen, to you or your kin. I promise. And I do not lie.”

  But Major Harrison was obviously a madman or a senile old fool. What good were his promises?

  Chapter Five

  Major Harrison left. Not long after, an undistinguished carriage pulled up at Mrs. Olmstead’s boarding house. The thickset driver handed the reins to a young groom and got down, pulling his broad-brimmed hat lower over his eyes.

  “Come to fetch Miss Ryland’s things, I has,” he explained to the scowling landlady. “She’s been taken on by a connection to the Earl of Royce in a hurry.”

  “The Earl of Royce? Oh, my.” The scowl turned to avid curiosity. Mrs. Olmstead kept up with the latest news of the polite world and knew every notable by name, if not by sight. “I wonder which. I know the earl’s son was married not long ago and fathered twins. His wife is an accused murder. Miss Ryland should have asked me before accepting a post there.”

  “Lady Rexford were never brought to trial,” the coachman answered in a gruff tone. “They found the real killer. And the twins are mere babes. Too young for a governess.”

  “Quite right. I wonder which relation, then,” Mrs. Olmstead hinted, waiting for information.

  “Not for me to say, for sure. I just drives the coach. Bound to be better’n her last post, from what I hear tell.” Now the driver paused, waiting for information himself.

  None was forthcoming except a nod of agreement. “I suppose I should be glad for her, even if it means I’ll have to look for a new boarder. I’ll miss the young lady, I will. Never gave me a moment’s trouble.”

  “Nice sort, was she?”

  The landlady was glad to talk as she hauled her rounded body up the stairs to the attic room. “She was a lady,” Mrs. Olmstead told him, between huffs and puffs, “no matter her going into service. Didn’t put on airs or nothing, but she acted proper, modest and well-spoken. She went to church regular-like, too, which proves her decency.” She looked out the tiny window of Simone’s former chamber, the one that overlooked the street, and Lydia Burton’s house. “Not like the females across the way who miss more Sundays than they make. And no wonder, with the hours they keep. Why, I could tell you—”

  “So this room’s for rent now, eh?” Harold said, opening the shabby trunk under the eaves to load in more books, two gowns on hooks, a threadbare robe and flannel nightgown, and a small portrait. He tucked the small stack of letters into his coat pocket, but bumped his head when he stood up. “Got any other rooms to let, iffen I come across any swells lookin’ for quarters? I never know who’s gettin’ in my coach these days.”

  “Why, that would be real neighborly of you, Mr., ah?”

  “Harold, ma’am,” he said, barely tipping his hat, keeping his eyes lowered while he rubbed at his skull and then wiped at his mouth. “Bigger rooms’n this one?”

  “Well, I have the ground floor, naturally, so I can watch the comings and goings of my tenants. I permit no hanky-panky in my dwelling, you understand.”

  “Wouldn’t of thought otherwise, ma’am.”

  She glared at the dark driving coat he wore. “And no pets, neither.”

  Harold quickly brushed at his sleeve. “I’ll remember that, ma’am. What about the middle floor, then? Is that one occupied?”

  “Mr. Fordyce has the whole apartment.” Mrs. Olmstead pursed her thick lips. “He pays his rent on time, that’s about all the good I can say of him. Never goes to church, he doesn’t. Doesn’t talk much, neither. Too busy counting his coins, I’d suppose. An investor, is what he calls hisself. Cold-hearted heathen, is what I call him, what never shares a pint or a pastry or a bit of chitchat. But he pays on time.” She sighed. “And more’n the rooms are worth. Too bad about the lass, either way. I’ll miss her.” She stuffed some of Miss Ryland’s things into a carpet bag, things not fit for a gent’s eyes, she told him.

  Harold kept his own eyes on the landlady, devout Christian that she was, to make sure Miss Ryland’s belongings got into the satchel. Then he closed the trunk and hoisted it to his shoulder.

  “My, you are a strong one, aren’t you?” Mrs. Olmstead admired. “Don’t suppose you are looking for accommodations, are you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Harold said, hurrying down the stairs and out to the carriage, guessing the overweight widow, church-goer or not, meant more than a room. “I’m well set where I am.” He stowed the trunk, handed the boy on the coach the satchel, and handed Mrs. Olmstead a coin for her trouble. Then he said as how he ought to go back up for one last look, to make certain they hadn’t missed anything.

  Mrs. Olmstead decided to wait below. “No need for us both to climb those stairs again, I suppose.”

  Her voice held a tinge of regret, so Harold quickly said, “No, ma
’am,” and took the stairs two at a time, out of her sight. He knocked on the door of the other lodger, however, before reaching the attic room.

  “Come to give you a goodbye message from Miss Ryland,” he said when a short, middle-aged man with pale skin, deep-set eyes, and hanging jowls opened the door.

  He frowned, at the intrusion or the information. “Leaving, is she?”

  Harold heard a flicker of regret, as the boarder licked his lips, his tongue darting out like an asp’s. Harold planned to deliver his message as a fist to the soft gut that overhung the man’s trousers.

  “Well, what is it?” the investor demanded. “I am busy.”

  Harold touched the brim of his brown hat and looked down in humble servitude. “Sorry to interrupt Mr., ah…?”

  “Fordyce, sirrah. Malcolm Fordyce.”

  The coachman stepped back. He decided to withhold his lesson in manners toward defenseless women until he did a bit of investigating. Why would a surly man lie about being busy, and lie about his own name?

  *

  Simone, meanwhile, remained in Lydia Burton’s private sitting room, hoping to be fetched before dark when, she supposed, gentlemen callers would begin arriving. Mrs. Burton was all smiles, bringing her tea and small sandwiches, so Simone assumed she was satisfied, even gratified by what Major Harrison had said on his way out. The madam appeared to know that the arrangement was not finalized, for she kept giving sly hints on how to please a gentleman.