The Scandalous Life of a True Lady

by Barbara Metzger

  “That is no way to live, for either of you!”

  “No, but in Jamaica, I could accomplish much. They are still struggling with the slavery issues, repatriation, reparations. There is a lot of intermingling between the British and the natives whether the starchiest swells approve or not.”

  She knew what he was saying: A bastard could wed a half-caste more easily there. She could never leave England, though, or her brother. Trying to sound encouraging, she said, “It sounds like an opportunity you’d enjoy.”

  He still held her hand, absently rubbing his thumb over her palm. “An adventure without subterfuge or danger or disguise. It has been a long time since I have known such tranquility.” Life was hard for a baseborn child, even if he was loved and cared for. He was always a bastard in British eyes, except when he was someone else.

  Simone tried to picture Harry in the tropics, surrounded by brilliantly colored birds and bright flowers hanging from vines. She couldn’t put him in the landscape. The man she saw in her mind was short and square and sweating, a lot like Lord Comden, with whom she’d danced a waltz tonight, since pregnant Alice wasn’t feeling up to the activity. Still, that was her imagination. Harry could decide to leave England. She shivered.

  “Feeling cold?”

  “No.” Except in that same corner of her heart.

  “I am,” he said. He shoved aside his coverings and slid beneath the blankets, her blankets, with her. He pulled her close into his arms. “Ah, that is much better.”

  He had his robe on; she had a gown and a robe. He was honorable. That’s what Simone told herself as she returned the embrace, as if her arms could keep him from leaving the country. She knew she could not hold him after this week, but somehow London would be a lonelier, emptier place without so much as a chance of seeing him. She rested her head against his chest. His arms enclosed her, like a waltz, with the beat of their hearts as music. He caressed her back, her neck, the side of her ribs. “Much better. What was it I promised?”

  “That my virtue would be intact, even if my reputation was blown to smithereens.”

  He kissed her, with a smile. “Intact is intact, but there are vast ranges of virtue, you know.”

  She did, from the illustrations in the book.

  “May I show you?” One of his hands was already caressing her breast, with the other one reaching for the hem of her nightgown.

  “Yes, please.”

  A picture might be worth a thousand words, but Harry’s touch was worth a thousand broken hearts.

  *

  Simone was trapped. A hot, heavy burden lay across her legs. She could never escape the heat or the weight! She jerked awake, only to realize the weight was Harry’s leg, his bare leg, over hers. His arm, his bare arm, was across her chest, pinning her to the bed. He hadn’t… ? She hadn’t… ? She’d wanted to, for certain, and thought she might have begged. Why, she was no better than the other courtesans, maybe worse because she knew he hadn’t gotten his money’s worth. Except that’s not what he was paying her for. Maybe she ought to be paying him for last night. What a muddle, and, blast, could he feel that her nipples were tightening at the scandalous thoughts? She shoved him away.

  “You cheated!”

  He was awake and smiling, watching her as if he knew the thoughts going through her mind, the guilt and the remembered glory. “I did not. Your maidenhood is as intact as ever. You can go to your husband without a qualm.”

  “You took off your robe.”

  “Zeus, Noma, you are concerned about that, after I made you moan with a woman’s pleasure?”

  She blushed as only a redhead could, like a tomato. She was mortified at what she’d done, at what she’d let a practiced seducer do.

  Harry explained, “I got too warm in my robe so I took it off.”

  No apology, no regrets? “Put. It. On.”

  He started to pull the covers down, exposing his chest and every muscle that rippled when he moved. Then he put a foot out.

  “Not now!”

  He grinned at her. “When?”

  “After I leave.” She got out of bed and marched toward the door to her dressing room. She’d forgotten her apparel was entirely transparent until he said “Thank you.”

  *

  Harry knew he ought to feel guilty. Damn, he was playing with fire, and semantics. She’d been an innocent, by Jupiter, and she sure as hell wasn’t anymore, except technically. It was her clothes, he told himself, a doxy’s wardrobe. No, her hair, a siren’s beacon. Her dark chocolate eyes that burned so sweetly, her breasts that begged to be cradled in his hands, her caring, her mind, her breasts. Lud, he was getting aroused just thinking about her breasts. Guilty? He felt like a king for giving her pleasure, like a beggar for wanting more, but he did not suffer a shred of regret. Hell, this was government business. And he was only a man. He’d do it again right now if she hadn’t scampered out of the room. He’d pleasure her again tonight if she let him, even if his unsatisfied condition almost killed him.

  Since none of the others would be up for hours, Harry suggested they ride into the village for breakfast with Daniel. His stallion needed exercise. Lud knew he did, too. He also wanted her to become more familiar with the bay gelding before the coming race. And he had to hear Daniel’s news.

  Simone decided to enjoy the sunny morning, the horses, and Harry’s company. That way she would not have to think about the night. Last night, this night, all the nights to come.

  The ride to the village was short, but fast and glorious. The grooms who watched them take off decided to make side bets of their own. The bay could never catch Harry’s black Fidus, of course, but Miss Royale rode like the wind, and didn’t she look a treat in her red and black habit? Harry almost fell behind watching her, wishing her hair was undone and flowing behind her. Hell, he wished she were riding him with that look of ecstasy on her face. Damn, now he was jealous of a horse!

  Daniel was not happy to be awakened so early. He was done with his disguise, he said when Simone asked, after she threatened him with her riding crop for deceiving her. “A bunch of other chaps have come down from town to see the race and watch the scramble in the maze. I’m here to support my cousin, don’t you know, nothing untoward about my being in Richmond.”

  He was annoyed the maze event had been cancelled, because his money had been on Miss Royale.

  Harry was annoyed when Daniel sat close beside her at the breakfast table in the private parlor Harry’d paid for. First a horse, now his hulking cousin, damn. He decided he had to get his mind back on business. “Has Danforth’s apartment been searched?”

  Daniel stopped filling his plate with enough food to serve the entire inn. “They didn’t find any letters or journals.”

  “Who went?”

  “Inspector Dimm and two of Bow Street’s reformed burglars. One to pick the lock, the other to help search, and Dimm to make sure they didn’t take anything else.”

  “Dimm wouldn’t miss anything. Damn, then either Danforth is not our man or he has the evidence with him.”

  Simone stopped marveling at how much food the cousins could consume to ask, “You think Lord James Danforth is a blackmailer? A duke’s son?”

  Harry answered while Daniel kept eating. “He’s the black sheep of the family, and he’s come into too much money for anything honest. He was already on my list, having, ah, visited the house where the documents went missing.”

  “Lots of chaps visited her, I’d wager,” Daniel said between mouthfuls. “She’s a popular woman, that one. Too bad she’s too old now, or I’d pay her a call myself. I like spring better’n summer. And autumn— Ouch. Why’d you kick me? Oh. Sorry, Miss Royale. I forget you aren’t family.”

  “Just don’t forget she’s a lady,” Harry said with a growl. “As for that other female, it’s too bad she didn’t burn her lovers’ letters and her journals, instead of letting them get stolen.”

  Simone thought of how openly the gentlemen at Griffin Woods showed off their mi
stresses. “Would it be so terrible if people discovered the gentlemen were her lovers? Most of the wives must know by now, no matter what the husbands think or hope. We all know how fast gossip travels, and how far.”

  “With those wives, yes, it matters. With those men, so high in the government, yes. And it’s not just the written proof; the woman’s journals recount how much her lovers spent on jewels and horses and furs for her.”

  “Royal exchequer money, maybe, or army funds,” Daniel added, reaching for the last slice of beefsteak. “There’d be hell to pay if that got out.”

  “There ought to be,” Simone said, in indignation. “That’s misappropriation of funds if I ever heard it.”

  “True, but Prinny and his brothers are unpopular enough as is. And she might have exaggerated.”

  “Are you certain she isn’t the one collecting the blackmail money?”

  “She swears not,” Harry said.

  “And you believe her, an immoral woman who has had that many lovers? A whore?” Simone forgot for an instant that a whore was precisely the role she was playing.

  The cousins looked at each other, blue eyes to blue eyes.

  “Tasted right to me,” Harry said.

  “No prickles,” Daniel said.

  Simone looked from one to the other, wondering where she had lost the thread of the conversation, or if the Royce men were all lunatics. “Not the beefsteak or the tongue. Did you believe her?”

  They both said yes and went back to their meals.

  When they were done, Harry said, “I’ll have to search his rooms. Lud, what a row there’d be if Danforth caught me near his concubine, and it’s not like we are friends, visiting back and forth. He’s always been a snob about my birth.”

  “He’s a jackass.”

  “And he treats Sandaree poorly.”

  When Daniel volunteered to conduct the search, Harry turned him down. “You’re too big to skulk in corners, and you don’t belong in the house, not as Harold, not as yourself.”

  “Sure I do, at the ball, leastways. I’ve been invited, don’t you know. I can trot upstairs while everyone’s dancing.”

  “The servants will know you don’t belong anywhere but the ballroom or the refreshments room.”

  “They’ll be too busy serving. And I could say one of the ladies invited me up. That’s not too farfetched at Gorham’s party.”

  Harry looked at his large cousin’s rumpled shirt, shaggy hair, and spotted kerchief. “You’ll throw spots, telling that tale.”

  “I could do it,” Simone offered, ignoring the nonsense she supposed was cousinly banter. “I can say I am calling on Sandaree to return her book if anyone catches me.”

  Daniel wanted to know what book.

  “Just a picture book from her country.”

  Harry dipped his finger in the honey jar and licked it. Daniel rubbed his ear. They both said no, she could not become a thief.

  “It is too dangerous and not your job.”

  “I am supposed to be helping, aren’t I? All I’ve done so far is ruffle Claire’s feathers. I still haven’t decided on a performance, either.”

  “Your role is to be noticed, and you’ve done it in aces. Metlock can come up with something for me. He always does.”

  “Lud, I’d give anything to see you dressed as a house maid!” Daniel laughed so hard tears came to the big man’s eyes. Then he decided to ride back to the manor house with them to scout out the lay of the land.

  That almost made Harry weep. He’d had plans to lay Simone down in a secluded glen he’d found. He’d even tied a blanket behind his saddle. Maybe he’d use it to smother his cousin.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Claire announced over another ample spread at luncheon that the afternoon’s contest was watercolor painting on the lawn. Several of the women groaned. Claire frowned them into silence and explained that they could not hold the archery or billiards contests, card matches, or the horse race, not without the gentlemen’s presence. Most of the men were riding out in search of a rabid dog seen in the neighborhood.

  Two women, who could not draw at all, feigned horror at the thought of being outdoors with a mad animal and no one to protect them.

  “The servants will be nearby, and those gentlemen who do not wish to ride.” Claire looked down her nose as if such a man was beneath contempt, ensuring that anyone who could, would aid Gorham in ridding the countryside of the danger. “We will all paint Griffin Manor from the front of the house, but affix our initials to the back. The paintings will be displayed in the drawing room before dinner, and the gentlemen will vote for the best. Do you deem that fair, Miss Royale?”

  “Exceedingly,” Simone replied to the snide question, unsurprised. Besides being a vocalist of professional caliber, Claire must obviously be a superb artist.

  She was. Not many of the other women were, however, so the competition was not fair at all. Only a handful of the ladybirds had been reared in gentility, with the training and education of a lady. Drawing lessons were hard to come by in Seven Dials, or on the farm. Sketching maybe, but watercolors in the poor house? Not likely. The females who plied this trade were lucky if they could read and write, although they all could add their incomes and knew the value of their jewels to the last shilling.

  The crude curses that met Claire’s announcement proved it: these might be the cream of the courtesans, the highest paid, most in demand of the demi-mondaine, but they were no ladies.

  As Lord Gorham quietly said to Harry, “You can take a wench off the streets, but you cannot take the streets off the wench.”

  Some of the women chose to withdraw from the artistic event they had no chance of winning. They’d play lawn tennis or pall mall instead, both of which Claire considered beneath her dignity, so they were not included in the tournament. The non-artistic Fashionable Impures could also laze about the house, seeing to their looks and apparel, their two favorite entertainments. No one wished to stroll the gardens or sightsee, not without their escorts to admire them, not with the sun out to destroy their complexions, not with a mad dog on the loose.

  Ellsworth’s mistress, Madeline Harbough, declared she had to practice dressage, which was not, she told the less well informed, putting on a corset by herself. She was going to perform her circus act this evening.

  Other strumpets gave up on the whole contest altogether. They hadn’t the looks, the clothes, the talent, or the cleverness of Claire, so why let their gents see that? London had more to offer than this rubbishing house party where one had to watch one’s manners and watch Claire or Miss Royale to see which fork to use. There was more fun at the gaming clubs, the theater, the shops, and the daily drives in Hyde Park to be seen and to see if perhaps a nob with deeper pockets showed any interest. Their companions agreed. Wagering on a losing prospect held no appeal, nor did endangering themselves going after a rabid beast. Besides, some of them had to get back to their wives or their businesses. They’d return for the ball, of course, and the final judging, to pay their debts and negotiate for the favors of the winning women.

  As a result, only seven artists sat at portable easels or with lap desks on the north lawn, looking up at the sprawling brick manor house. Four others sat watching from beneath a large awning, where servants served iced lemonade and biscuits, tea and tiny sandwiches, even though luncheon was just past. Sandaree sat on a cushion on the ground, midway between the painters and the gossipers, shivering in her thin garments despite the spring sunshine.

  Simone sent Sarah back to her room for a shawl for the poor girl. Sandaree thanked her, then confessed she was more disconsolate than cold. Sir James was going to be angry at her again, because she was not going to win. She’d never used watercolors or drawn a landscape.

  “Then you should paint the wonderful designs you have on your hands. That is a real skill, too.”

  Sandaree smiled and took up a brush, but she soon grew frustrated at the drips and smears she produced. Instead she politely inquired of the femal
es under the awning if they would like her to paint on them, not with her henna dye, but using these bright colors. The bored nonpainters were delighted, especially knowing the vines and chains would wash off. One wanted a butterfly on her cheek, another a heart on her shoulder. Soon they were all laughing except for Claire, who was painting with dark intensity.

  Miss Althorp, the poetess, was also ignoring the happy chatter, so Simone decided she’d better get to work. Both of their paintings were starting well with the bright blue sky, she saw as she passed behind their positions. They knew what they were doing and had command of the flowing medium. The other artistes were not as proficient, or as fast.

  Simone knew she could never match Claire’s skill, but she’d always loved painting, and rejoiced when her students were old enough or interested enough to pursue one of Simone’s favorite pastimes. Without a governess post, she could not afford paints for her own pleasure. Or a horse, naturally. Just think, today she’d enjoy both of her best-loved pleasures. And last night— No, she was not going to think of last night, pleasure, love, or Harry. Which meant she saw him, his bare chest and devilish smile, instead of the landscape. She thought of painting him, for her own enjoyment, her own keepsake, instead of trying to compete with Claire and Elizabeth Althorp. Then she thought of her brother and her own future. Even third place was worth points in the overall contest. She’d paint Harry another time, in private. Perhaps he’d pose. As the rugged sportsman he’d appeared after lunch? In evening wear, the perfect gentleman? In his robe? Bare-chested in her bed?

  Simone stood to fetch a lemonade to cool her suddenly heated cheeks rather than calling for a servant. She walked behind Claire, not to disturb the opera-singer’s view or concentration. Claire never noticed her presence, or Simone’s sigh when she saw the lovely picture coming to life on her paper.