“I cannot, not yet. Too many lives are at stake. If you spoke to the wrong person before we leave, unknowingly whispered a doubt, plans could go awry and end badly.”
“But you said you want me to listen to gossip.”
“Listen, yes, but not give anything away. You’ll understand later.”
Now she understood that for all her pretty clothes and intentions, she seemed to remain Miss Simone Ryland at heart, a sensible woman who disliked paradoxes and puzzles. “I do not know if I can manage this after all.”
“You simply have not grown into your character yet. Unfortunately we have no month to rehearse. Come, let us try again. This time I will take charge.”
“Take charge?” She did not like the sound of that, but before Simone could react, the major pulled her onto his lap where the cat had been moments ago. Startled by his quick move and his strength, she still noticed his surprisingly firm thighs under her bottom. She would have expected weak and wasted muscles if she’d considered a gentleman’s thighs at all, which she had not until now. He must ride his horses after all, she thought, before he tilted her chin and brought his mouth down on hers.
The moustache tickled and the beard rubbed at her chin, but now she understood about a real kiss. His lips felt warm and dry, not parched like the curate’s, not slobbery like the baron’s, not cold and hard like that lecherous son’s. Now her lips grew warmer. They even tingled. Then his tongue flicked out and licked her lips, a butterfly’s caress, not threatening, not intrusive, just…nice. That ought to be enough to convince any watchers. How many could there be, anyway? No matter what the major said, no one but farm animals indulged in such pastimes amid company. She certainly did not. Simone pulled back, and his hands immediately left her shoulders.
“Maybe you would enjoy this more if you imagined that younger man.”
She had been enjoying his kiss, somewhat, at any rate. “Hm, tall, dark and handsome?”
He brushed her lips with his again. “More or less.”
“Blue eyes?”
“If that’s what you like.”
It was. And sure enough, she had the picture of him in her mind’s eyes, the Harry she must have dreamed about from the stories at Lydia Burton’s. With her eyes closed, with the moustache forgotten, she kissed him, and Harry kissed her back. His hands stroked her back and her neck and down the sides of her ribs, and she grew heated, wanting to be nearer. She dared to raise her hand, then reconsidered. No, she did not want to touch his old-fashioned wig and ruin her dream.
Feeling disloyal for thinking of an imaginary hero while kissing her feeble old patron, she spread her hands on his chest and his shoulders. They felt hard and strong, muscular like his legs, far more suited to the man in her mind than the man in her future. Then she forgot about everything but him, Major Harrison, the Harry who held her. Now her own body told her what to do, what it wanted, what he most likely wanted back. Those were her only thoughts, while shooting stars danced across her sky. She’d never… No wonder… His tongue could do that? There was more?
Eventually they both needed to breathe. Simone pulled away and grinned. “I can do this!”
“Oh, lady, you certainly can.” Harry pushed her farther onto his knees and straightened his coat over his lap. He was panting, so she worried that kissing, kissing his way, was too much exertion for a frail man. But he was smiling. His wig was askew, his neckcloth was unknotted—had she done that?—and now one end of his moustache tilted up, the other down.
She was going to Richmond.
*
Harry was going to burn in hell if they did not stop. He sent her to bed, her own bed, and poured himself another glass of port. Then he sat back, readjusted his clothing, his privates, and his thinking.
This new plan would work perfectly, he told himself. She’d keep her virtue; he’d keep his reputation as a rake.
She’d be acting; he’d be the perfect gentleman, not the bastard he was born to be.
Keeping her chaste would be easy; he didn’t want the woman anyway.
Then he set the port aside and ate three sugar cubes from the tea tray.
*
Harry had his spies, his ears to the ground throughout London, his cadre of intelligence officers. He had paid informants at the highest levels of society and the lowest dregs of humanity. Nothing of his, however, compared to the servants’ grapevine.
Everyone, it seemed, knew about the courtesan competition. Why, Sally could tell Simone the names of half the women supposedly attending Lord Gorham’s house party, plus their special talents, favorite dressmakers, and scruples when it came to cheating. She had to watch out for one who hated all women, another who liked women all too well. One was known to be desperate for money to settle gambling debts her protector refused to pay. A viscount was about to marry and leave town, so his mistress needed funds until she found a new financier. The desperate ones were the most competition, Sally warned, after Miss Claire Hope, of course, Lord Gorham’s constant companion when his wife wasn’t looking. Simone had to hide her chuckle behind a cough, knowing of the woman’s true name.
Sally understood entirely about using aliases. Why, she was going to be Sarah Doyle, from her own given name and her mother’s maiden name. It would not do, she said, begging miss’s pardon, for Sally Judd to be known as a ladybird’s dresser, not if she wished to find a position with a proper lady of fashion afterward. And thanks be to Miss Royale for all the training she’d be getting. She was that thrilled to be going to the high flyers’ gathering, but, begging miss’s pardon again, ’twould be a poor reflection on both her mother and the Kensington household for a connection between them to become known.
“Mum’s gone right respectable, I swear, and doesn’t intend me to follow in her shoes. Not that I’d throw my bonnet over the windmill for the first handsome face and pretty talk, of course.”
Her brother Jeremy would be Jem Doyle, for the same reasons. Besides, the major had asked both siblings to use a different name, and no one refused Master Harry, or asked for explanations.
Likely because they never got answers to their questions, Simone thought, but she listened carefully to everything Sally could tell her.
She made a mental list until the information grew too complicated. Then she had to write it down. With over twenty couples invited, according to the rumor mill, the pages of her notebook quickly filled.
Sally—Sarah—was happy to report all the news she could gather from nearby households and the scandal sheets she adored; Jem did his research at the taverns where footmen took their ale; Mrs. Judd, herself, took to visiting her old friends at the theaters. She listened to the Green Room gossip for Harry’s sake, Simone knew, not Simone’s. Even the surly driver, Harold, who she supposed did not need a new name since he never spoke his old one, or anything to anyone but Mrs. Judd, passed on scraps of knowledge about Lord Gorham’s stables and the surrounding countryside. What surprised Simone most was Mr. Harris’s cooperation.
Everyone was fairly certain that one of the contest events would involve the maze at Richmond, close to Lord Gorham’s estate of Griffin Woods. The maze was notoriously complicated, with a groundskeeper seated on a high ladder to direct lost trekkers back out. Everyone was also certain that Lord Gorham would provide his mistress with a map of the paths. All the other gentlemen were scrambling to purchase or purloin one for their own partners. Viscount Martindale was known to have sent a groom to Richmond last week, to figure it out and make a diagram. The man had not returned.
The secretary took dinner with Simone, but he appeared more dour and disapproving than ever. He most likely believed she had sold her soul to the devil for a chance at the thousand pounds, and that after spouting her pious drivel about honor and self-respect. So Harry had not taken his assistant into his confidence about their new arrangement, which gave Simone a small sense of satisfaction. Mr. High and Mighty Harris did not know everything after all. He took his seat at the table without holding her chair, then pa
id more attention to his food than to her. He hurried through the meal as if he could not wait to be rid of her company.
The devil take the secretary, Simone told herself. She had enough to worry about without his scowls and his silence. Why, she was glad he was not going with them, according to Sally.
Yet before she left the room, leaving him to his solitary coffee or port or poison, for all she knew or cared, Mr. Harris handed her a folded sheet of paper. On it was a replica of the Richmond Maze, with the center clearly marked, and the proper path to it drawn with red ink. Now she stood a chance!
“Why, thank you. That is too kind of you, sir.”
He grunted and waved her away before she could ask how he came upon a key to the maze or why he was helping her.
Likely the man was wagering on the outcome, she decided, or he’d never have bothered.
More assistance came from Daniel Stamfield, who admitted he was betting on her. She wanted to ride again the next morning, but he thought they should go somewhere quiet, so they could talk. “Harry suggested a museum. No one I know goes there.”
“I do, taking all my students to them, when I was a governess. The children adored getting out of the classroom, and I thought they might learn history better, seeing it in person rather than merely in books.”
Daniel did not look happy, so Simone mentioned that she had never been to the gardens at Kew. They were near enough to walk, if Daniel could secure them admission.
“I can’t. Stuffiest old board of directors in charge, I swear, but old Harry can do anything. I’ll have the pass by noon. Oh, and maybe you ought to wear the veil again. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I was poaching on Harry’s preserves or anything.”
So they went to Kew in the afternoon. Simone wore a new walking gown of figured muslin, with a matching spencer that was trimmed in fur, against the slight chill. She wore a cottage bonnet with a veil and carried a parasol to hide more of her appearance.
Daniel shocked her by knowing the names of many of the plants and shrubs in the extensive gardens. “I’m a countryman, don’t you know?”
No, all she’d heard of him was how he was a wastrel, a gambler, a drinker and sometime brawler. None of that showed today, as he treated her as carefully as the tender flowers he admired. For such a big man, with such a bad reputation, he was remarkably gentle, guiding her across muddy spots and away from curious gardeners. Mr. Stamfield was yet another riddle, a thankfully well-informed one.
“Made an effort, don’t you know, to scout the terrain for you.”
“You went to Richmond? I already have a map of the maze.”
“I didn’t mean literally. That’s just army talk for gathering information.”
Simone knew about his former career, but not any specifics. “Were you on the Peninsula? Did you serve with Mr. Harris or the major?”
Daniel stumbled, almost walking into her parasol. She closed it now that they were out of view of the workmen.
“We need to talk about the competition,” he said when he recovered, “not boring old history.”
He added pages to her store of data, gathered from the betting books at the gentlemen’s clubs. Anyone with two shillings in his pocket—or with good enough credit—was making wagers on the ladies’ chances. Simone, Noma, that is, was a dark horse, an unknown. Her name was not even mentioned. He himself had placed his money on Harry’s companion.
“I wouldn’t tell ’em a thing about you, not even your nom de guerre. That’s for going to war, you know. We’ll keep the odds high that way, for a bigger payoff. They all think I’m backing Harry because we’re cou—close. I’ll wait until the day you all leave, then increase my bets. If we win big, I’ll buy you a bracelet.”
“If we win big, I won’t need you to buy me a gift. But I do hope you do not wager more than you can afford to lose. The contest is not going to be a legitimate one, from what I understand.”
“Oh, Harry won’t let much cheating get by him. A matter of honesty, don’t you know.”
She knew the major had an obsession with the truth, but she did not see how that could translate into keeping the contest fair.
Daniel said, “Well, you don’t need to worry about the equestrian event. The only competition is Madeline Harbough. She used to be Maddy Hogg, a bareback rider at Astley’s before she became what they call a Pretty Horsebreaker. Pretty gals on horseback exercising Thoroughbreds in the park until they catch a gent’s notice. She’s Ellsworth’s mistress now, and as fat as he is. She might know a few tricks, but you can outrace her.”
“Doesn’t that depend on the horse I am riding? Again, Lord Gorham can mount his lady friend on the fastest goer in his stable and leave the plodders to the rest of us.”
“Hm. That’s a good point. I’ll talk to Harry about bringing a few of his own mounts down.”
Simone did not know if the handsome bay gelding was fast or not. She knew a few tricks, too.
Daniel went over some of the other events, as he knew them. The singing contest would be no contest, everyone agreed. Not one bet got placed against Claire Hope in that category, but Sir Chauncey Phipps’ chérie amour was with the Royal Ballet, so she was getting good odds for the dancing.
Dancing? Simone had no ballet training, and could not possibly perform in front of an audience.
“Oh, I doubt Gorham will let Claire lose that one so quickly,” Daniel told her as they inspected the medicinal herb garden. “He’ll pick a quadrille or a waltz, or something with partners. He and Claire have been dancing together for years. I saw them once at the Cyprian’s Ball.”
Simone’s heart sank. She knew all the steps, but Major Harrison on the dance floor? With his hunch and his hobble and his cane? Good lord, they’d finish last at that.
“I heard,” Daniel went on, “that Gorham is considering billiards as one of the trials. Claire is said to be a dab hand at it.”
“I have never played.” Simone was reconsidering her enthusiasm for the competition altogether.
“Well, you mentioned archery. There’s sure to be a round of that.”
“I’m quite good at that.” Then she recalled how long it had been since she’d practiced. “Or I used to be.”
“Target shooting?” There was hope in Daniel’s voice.
She only used her grandfather’s old pistol a few times, until her scholarly father confiscated it.
She sank down on a nearby bench, not concerned about soiling her gown on the mossy seat. “I haven’t got a chance.”
Daniel sat beside her and patted her hand. “Of course you do. You’d get my vote for most beautiful.” He blushed, but she leaned over and kissed his cheek anyway. “Thank you.”
“And best dressed. From what I hear, some of the females are complaining that their gowns won’t be ready on time.”
“Mine will.” They shared a smile.
“Well, there might be poetry reading. I heard half the women can’t read, so you’re bound to outshine them there, too, or if Gorham chooses a game of Questions and Quotes. Claire considers herself a literary type, don’t you know. She holds salons and that kind of rot. You’re bound to have all the answers. A governess ought to know her Shakespeare, I figure.”
She sighed. “Yes, but I understand that two of the women are actresses. They’ll know the plays too.”
“What about cards?”
“I can play chess.” She’d beaten her father. Twice. She sighed again, louder.
“Well, you’ll just have to make a good showing at the other events. They’re all worth points, don’t you know. The prize goes to the overall winner, but the betting is for second and third place, too.”
“No one thinks Claire Hope can lose, do they?”
“Of course they do. Of course she can.”
Then Daniel, who shared Harry’s talent, or the family curse, scratched his neck, where a rash had suddenly appeared. “Must be from one of the plants.”
Chapter Eleven
The carriage arrived to ta
ke Simone and Sally to Richmond precisely at eleven, as Mr. Harris had said it would. Not a moment earlier, not a moment later, fiend seize the punctilious prig. He did not even come to see them off.
Simone wasted time, checking the baggage, running back inside to make sure nothing was left behind, looking into the hamper Mrs. Judd had handed them, filled with enough food for a week’s journey, not the short trip to Richmond, then leaving directions for the grooming of the cat, to the housekeeper’s disgust and the coachman’s impatience.
Well, the housekeeper was always annoyed with the cat and Simone, and the coachman was always crotchety. Harold sat on the driver’s bench, his hat pulled low, his muffler tied high around his neck, the reins in his hands, ready to go. The coach was different from the one that carried her to Kensington, and the chestnuts pulling it had matching white socks while the other team had none. This carriage was still well-appointed, but larger, darker, more undistinguished; the horses were still well-bred, and looked to Simone’s critical eye to be equally as sweet-going as the others.
Jem and Sally looked different now too, with darker hair instead of their towheads, and no more freckles. They appeared older, more sophisticated, except for their grins at each other and Simone in their excitement about the trip. Harold squelched that with a bang of his whip handle down on the footrest.
“T’horses,” he growled.
At least he cared about something, Simone thought, finally taking her seat inside the carriage.
Jem shut the door behind her and scrambled up to sit beside the driver while Sarah, which name suited her better than Sally now, helped arrange the hamper, the blankets, and the warm bricks. She was as merry as a mayfly to be going to a grand house, seeing all the Fashionable Impures and their fancy dressers, practicing her skills. They’d have a wonderful time, Sarah was sure, what with all the surprises.
Simone hated surprises. They often ruined plans, and seldom turned out to be what a person wanted or needed.
“Oh, you’ll be happy with some of these, I’d warrant,” Sarah told her, grinning to show where one tooth had been darkened.
The Scandalous Life of a True Lady Page 10
