The Scandalous Life of a True Lady

by Barbara Metzger

  A loud sniff was the only answer.

  He kicked at the pile of blankets, muttering about how far a man had to crawl for a decent night’s sleep. He tried flattery this time. “You looked magnificent tonight and played your part well. Not overacting, not overreacting to my loverlike attentions. Those little cooing sounds you made were just the right touch.”

  He’d heard them? Simone groaned, but tried to hide the sound in the bedcovers.

  Harry went on: “No one would know that you are a respectable female.”

  “I am not a proper lady. I’m here, aren’t I? I am an actress, or worse.” The worst was how she enjoyed it, his hand on her shoulder, his arm brushing her breast as if by accident, the whispers in her ear. “I am not respectable at all.”

  Harry thought he heard a fist pound a pillow. So much for flattery. “You are performing a role, remember that, not living a life of moral turpitude. We need to talk about that role before we go any further. We have to get our stories straight, before anyone catches us in a discrepancy. I brushed the questions aside with vague answers tonight, but a few of the worst gossips are persistent. So were two wantwits thinking to take my place in the middle of the house party. I do not want them looking for answers on their own.”

  Simone had to agree, since she’d met with more questions over sherry in the drawing room, then pointed queries from the gentlemen on either side of her during dinner, and the women again afterward. “We should have talked days ago.”

  “You are right, but that was impossible. May I come closer to the bed, so we can converse now? I’d hate to have to shout, not knowing how thick Gorham’s walls are.”

  “I do not trust you.”

  Rightfully. He was already opening the hanging bed curtains. Simone pulled the covers closer to her chin because the nightrail she wore covered her as well as a spider web might have.

  Sarah had not bothered to pack her old flannel gown or robe, claiming they were fit for the fire, not even the poor box. The new garments, ones Simone had never selected—she prayed Mr. Harris had not, either—were all equally as sheer, silky, and siren-like. Simone was not letting anyone, least of all the handsome man at the foot of her bed, think she was acting the seductress in her own chambers. The role stopped at the bedroom door. That was the deal they’d made.

  She had not bargained on Harry by candlelight, by all the saints and stars. He looked magnificent in his brocade robe, with the sash tied low enough to reveal the vee of his bare chest, with the faintest covering of dark hair. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow. His lower legs were muscular, well-formed, and also bare. So were his feet, which was worse. “You are not wearing a nightshirt or slippers,” she accused, pointing to the opening in the draperies. “Go. I cannot talk to a half-naked man.”

  “I am sorry, but I could not find where Metlock hid my slippers, and I only wear a nightshirt in the dead of winter, to avoid chills.”

  The chill emanating from the bed right now ought to have sent him back to the fireplace. Instead he asked if he could lie next to her on the mattress, the better to converse. AI promise not to remove my robe.”

  Simone reached for the fireplace poker she’d stuck under the top blanket.

  “Right, I’ll just sit at the foot of the bed. And keep my feet on the floor and my eyes averted.” He’d try anyway. Between the firelight let into the cavernous bed and the candle on the nightstand, her hair gleamed like molten lava, flowing down her shoulders. Her bare shoulders, he noticed when she reached for the weapon. He took a deep breath and turned to stare at the embers in the fireplace. “I promised your virtue was safe from me.”

  But was it safe from her own wayward thoughts? Simone ignored the traitorous little voice in the back of her mind. She pulled her feet to one side, giving him more room, and more distance. “I am not worried about my own virtue, which I firmly intend to protect, promises or not. But I worry about young Sally. Sarah, that is. I do not wish this kind of life for myself, or for her. After one night, I am more certain than ever.”

  “As I am certain you do not belong among the birds of paradise.” Simone’s quick gasp gave him pause. “No, not that you are not as beautiful or accomplished as they are, but that you are made of finer stuff. Bringing you here was like setting a Thoroughbred among cart horses, serving Champagne in an earthen jug. You should not have heard half the conversations tonight.”

  Simone was so pleased by his comments, his estimation of her worth, that she decided to be generous. “Oh, proper ladies can be just as scandalous. At my last place of employment, the baroness entertained her friends in a sitting room directly below my bedchamber. The sounds carried up the chimney.”

  “And you listened? My, my. A cheat at chess and an eavesdropper. I am disappointed, madam.”

  She knew he was teasing, but still defended herself. “I could not avoid hearing them. They did not simply gossip about others like Mrs. Olmstead did, but they recounted their own affairs and immoral intentions. I accidentally heard of this one’s cicibeo, that one’s new under butler. Thank goodness the children did not hear them, except for when the baroness requested their presence in the drawing room during tea. Those titled ladies did not cease discussing one wife’s plans to leave her husband because of his lack of…of…”

  “Vitality?” Harry supplied, flashing a wicked grin that signified he’d never suffer such a deficiency.

  Simone ignored him. “And other improper conversations. I prayed the children did not understand and hustled them out of there. So no, I was not shocked by the women’s talk tonight. Their actions were more lewd, perhaps, but allowances must be made because of their desperate situations.”

  “Desperate? They are some of the highest paid courtesans in all of England.”

  “But for how long before their lord tires of them? They are all as beautiful as you said. Of course that are. No man chooses a homely mistress, does he? Well, he might if he liked her, but he would not bring her to this gathering.”

  “No, a less attractive female would only feel inferior.”

  “Precisely. What happens when the jeune filles, the filles du jour, grow into matrons of middle years? Their complexions less rosy, their figures less firm? How well paid will they be then? I believe every female here feels the sands of time running out, so they all strive to keep their beaus happy as long as they can. Mostly, they all want to win some of the prize money from the contest. They fight for their futures, the same way I do.”

  “You do not blame them for choosing the demi-monde? For breaking every law of society?”

  “Many of them had no choice. I would be in their shoes right now, and in some gentleman’s bed, except for your kindness.”

  “You are in some gentleman’s bed,” Harry pointed out, disgruntled that his feet were getting cold. “Mine.”

  “But we have a different arrangement from Claire or Mimi or Madeline. Becoming a harlot for hire was their only choice. Did you know that Captain Entwhistle’s lady friend Daisy came to London to find work to support her family in the country? An abyss met her at the posting house and offered her a room until she found a seamstress position. The room was in a brothel!”

  “That is all too common a story. Country girls have always been duped into prostitution. The government does not do enough to protect them from unscrupulous procurers. And no, Lyddie would never resort to waylaying innocents.”

  Simone nodded. “Mrs. Burton’s employees appeared content. Daisy was not. If the captain had not found her and been charmed into buying her contract, she’d be there still. She says she might be forced back into that business when he moves on to another pretty girl. And Miss Morrow is breeding. What happens to her and her child if Lord Comden does not support her? He gave her a diamond ring, when what she needs is a gold band. And the Indian woman who’d been a slave? She knows no one in London and barely speaks the language. What happens to her if her protector gambles his new fortune away and cannot win another, as was whispered tonight? The
women doubt Lord James Danforth will permit her to keep any of the money, if she wins the contests.”

  “The duke’s son? I did not know he was below hatches, or recently come into money. I will have to look into his finances to see how he can afford a concubine and this house party. That is just the hint I hoped to gather, a lead to follow.”

  “Then at least some good will come from this wretched house party. I regret thinking I could be content with this kind of life.”

  “I regret the necessity of bringing you here.”

  “It was my choice.”

  “I could have found another way, another woman.”

  “No, for you are giving me the chance to better my prospects. Why should you regret anything? This is the life you live, by your own choice also.”

  “I live many lives, not all of them by my wishes or preferences. I do what I have to. Soon enough I hope to put all that behind me. I’ve been thinking of asking Lord Royce to sell me that land. I don’t want him leaving me anything in his will that should go to Rexford and his son. Thanks to him and his advice, I have the funds to invest.”

  “I cannot picture you as a country squire.”

  “A horse breeder, maybe. I have not decided. Perhaps I’ll travel now that it is possible, but a place to come home to sounds appealing. A house that is all my own, where I do not have to hide my identity.”

  “With a wife and children?”

  “For one such as I? That is harder to imagine.”

  Not for Simone. She could almost see three children scampering across a wide lawn while young colts frolicked on a hill in the distance. The children were two dark-haired boys and one red-headed girl who chased her brothers while the proud parents held hands in a gazebo.

  Harry’s hand? Simone was holding Harry’s hand? She dropped it quickly. Gads, when had he climbed up beside her to rest against the pillows? “I knew I could not trust you!”

  “I haven’t done anything! We’re only talking, aren’t we? I was getting a cramp in my leg, that’s all. And, look, you are under the covers and I am not. I’ll fetch those blankets so my toes don’t turn blue, all right?”

  He did it before she could say no, or send him to find stockings for his bare feet. She placed the fireplace poker down the center of the bed, dividing it.

  He stayed on his side, spreading the blankets out. “Would you be happier if I fetched my sword and placed it between us?”

  Simone ignored how he seemed to be settling in for the night, not just for their talk. “You brought a sword?”

  “Of course. I am hoping for a fencing match or two, to keep in condition.”

  Simone had seen nothing wrong with the devil’s condition. “Who else fences?”

  “Metlock is too small and slow and not much of a challenge, although he tries when no one else is available. Daniel is too big and clumsy. But Gorham trains at Antonio’s. Sir Chauncey has won a duel or two.”

  “He does not seem sober enough, or physically fit.”

  “Looks can be deceiving, as we both know. Forget about Sir Chauncey. Tell me what talent you are going to perform for the company and the contest. Do you need music, an accompanyist? An instrument or a certain book?”

  “I cannot decide. Miss Hanson plays the pianoforte far better than I do, and Miss Smythe, Lord Martindale’s friend, is said to be proficient at the harp.”

  Harry groaned. “We have to listen to that?”

  “She intends to wear white lace, to appear angelic.”

  “That woman has no halo, I swear. She was Dunley’s before Martindale’s, and Chadwick’s before that. Lord knows when she has time to practice.”

  Simone did not want to know any more. “I’m sure Mary Connors can portray Lady Macbeth far more convincingly than I. She was with a traveling troupe of actors before accepting Sir John Foley’s carte blanche. I do not write poetry like Miss Althorp, or whistle like Mademoiselle Granceaux. Yes, the self-styled Frenchwoman is going to whistle for her supper, or for the prize.”

  “Heaven help us all.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I’d never dare try singing, although I have not heard Miss Hope perform. Her reputation is far too intimidating. Miss Harbough is sending for her trained horse from the circus, and Sir Chauncey’s partner from the Royal Ballet will undoubtedly dance. The woman who wore the large ruby intends to cut silhouettes for the company, but from the salacious laughter, I doubt she is going to trace facial profiles. I have not seen a cat that needs brushing here, which appears to be my only talent.”

  “The men won’t mind if they watch you brush your own hair, but I am certain you’ll think of something, and you’ll do admirably at it. You can delay your performance, saying you need to send to London for some trifle first, like Maddy’s horse. Not that a horse is a trifle, but you understand.”

  He propped another pillow behind his head, a bit closer to Simone’s side. She did not protest, not wishing to argue over an inch or two, now that he was on the bed. Then he stretched, reaching his arm over his head, over her head. She frowned; he gave her an innocent look and yawned. “Sorry, it has been a long day and we still have to decide what to tell the snoops and scandal mongers. They’ll repeat it to the servants, who are liable to sell the information to the gossip columns. I would not be surprised if there are reporters in the village even now, waiting for morsels to send on to London. You and I will be the favorite topic, I’d wager.”

  “Why? I’d think the presence of a former harem concubine would be more interesting.”

  “Ah, but no one wants to be reminded of slavery. Besides, my very name is scandalous, remember? And I have never been known to have a woman in my keeping before.”

  “What, never?”

  “No, my life has been complicated enough without chancing my identity on a more lasting liaison.”

  “Well, I’ve never had a man in my bed before.” Was she imagining things, or had he inched closer?

  Harry stared up at the canopy over them. “Oh, I used to sleep with several of the Harrison boys, all in one big bed. I learned to defend my territory early.”

  And to take up as much space as possible, Simone thought, pulling her own blankets closer. “What about girls?”

  “Hell yes, three of them. The Harrison chits were proper little ladies. They shared a room down the corridor and squealed on us constantly. Two of them are married with families of their own.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “I do know. I have known many women, Noma. That was part of the persona I wanted to create, part of who Harry Harmon had to be, as dissimilar from Major Harrison as possible. And why not? The earl’s by-blow was not going to be respectable, no matter what I did, so why not enjoy myself?”

  “Did you?”

  “At first. Now? Not as much. My father and half-brother wish me to join them at proper affairs, government functions, business meetings, respectable doings where I’d have to play the gentleman, but I am not certain. That seems too tame.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you, little governess? Have you ever wished for more excitement in your so-proper life?”

  “This week will be quite enough of an adventure, thank you. I’ll have something to tell my children, if I dare.”

  “Oh, you are going to have children to listen to your tales of dissipation?”

  “Yes, three: two boys and a— That is, I have no idea. Harry, do you believe in fortune-telling?”

  He turned on his side, to study her face. “Why?”

  “Because I thought I’d seen you before, when I met Mr. Harris and Major Harrison, but of course I had not. And sometimes my mind creates detailed pictures of things I cannot have known. They are not dreams, but happen while I am wide awake.”

  “You said your mother made extra money telling fortunes.”

  “Yes, but Grandfather taught her how to tell foolish maids what they wanted to hear. I never believed she could actually do it.”

  “Stranger thin
gs have happened. Lord knows that’s the truth.” He gently touched her cheek, so she looked at him. “Your mother was half-Gypsy. You are only a quarter Rom, but if the talent is in the blood…”

  She shook her head. “No, that’s too silly to consider. I suppose I simply have a vivid imagination.”

  “We can use that now, to make up a past for you, when we cannot avoid direct questions or give vague answers. Try to stick to the truth. That’s always the best.”

  “Like you did?”

  “I tried, sweetheart, I really did.”

  “Then tell me truly, why was Mr. Harris so mean to me?”

  He kissed her then, on the forehead. “Because that was what his role demanded.”

  On her eyelids. “Because he could not trust himself to keep his hands off you.”

  On her lips. “Because you were mine.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mine? What did he mean by that? She wasn’t the mistress kind. He wasn’t the marrying kind. What was left? Simone would have asked him, but she was too busy trying to decide whether she should kiss him back or slap him. Maybe both, but the kiss first.

  Mid-decision, or mid-kiss, he rolled away, said good night, and went to sleep, on his side of the bed, atop the covers.

  Mine? In his dreams, maybe, because he reached out for her later when she’d doused the candle. She was trying to get comfortable with a fireplace poker beside her, a strange man’s breath near her pillow, and unanswered questions buzzing like angry bees in her mind. He put his arm across her chest in his sleep, to stop her restless tossing. That worked, because she was afraid to move, to have his hand so close to her breast, even on top of the covers. She felt anchored, which was not a bad way to feel with the storm of emotions swirling around her.

  She placed her hand over his, for the warmth, the strength. Mine.

  No matter what happened after this week, she’d have her hundred pounds, the new clothes, and memories. She wouldn’t keep the necklace, but the shadow of his smile in her heart, that was hers forever.