As he passed by, two ladies whispered furiously while their eyes followed him. Generally, Durham was accustomed to being noticed and discussed, particularly by ladies. But something in their eyes and their furious hush as he passed by made him think that the latest on-dit about him was more scandalous than usual. As a crowd of very young debutantes passed by, he slowed and moved out of their sight, hearing their voices rise slightly to be heard over the gossiping misses.
“Durham was at Washburn Court with the Smythe-Dunston’s, you know,” the lady wearing a very low cut silver gown was saying to her companion in a sarcenet ball dress of sapphire blue.
“So that’s how they know,” the other woman replied. Durham wondered with an ominous feeling what it was, precisely, that the Smythe-Dunston’s thought they knew. He had been painfully conscious of his every word to Daphne Smythe-Dunston, ensuring that he could in no way be connected to her upon their return to London with any impropriety. He moved to stand behind a large column and waited for the ladies to continue as he pretended to sip a glass of champagne.
“Why, yes! Mr. Rosewood—he is Delia Ellsworth’s guardian you know—imparted with strictest confidence to Mrs. Smythe-Dunston that Lady Delia had spent the night in the Marquess’ bedchamber!” The lady in lavender regarded her shocked companion.
“No!”
“Yes, my dear Lady Trumpington, oh, yes.”
“But surely Mr. Rosewood will force Durham to marry her!”
“Mr. Rosewood force the Earl of Durham to do anything? Not likely! Rosewood seemed to indicate that the indiscretion was entirely of the lady’s doing. She was not herself, he told Mrs. Smythe-Dunston—who also did say that the girl had been throwing herself at Durham the whole time.”
“Shocking,” said another woman in blue, who was called Agnes Glossop. “I never did countenance the old Earl not re-marrying. Girls need mothers to teach them how to behave properly. Or they go bad.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said the woman in lavender, her chest rising with indignation, “and to think that poor Mr. Rosewood has apparently decided to take responsibility and marry the girl himself. It shocks the conscience.”
“No! Agnes, certainly Mr. Rosewood will not sacrifice himself!”
“Pooh, but she’s terribly rich, you know. He’ll sacrifice himself for those thousands of pounds and then keep her in the country until he’s certain the girl’s not carrying Durham’s by-blow and then have a few babes of his own off her and hope the whole scandal has blown over by the time he wants to return to town with his wife.” Mrs. Glossop uttered these last words with shocking finality. Her companions fell into a torrent of furious whispers and the Marquess strode away, shoulders tight with discomfiture.
He knew immediately that Christopher Rosewood had deliberately told Mrs. Smythe-Dunston the story about Lady Delia and his bedchamber so that his cousin would be ruined in the eyes of society. But how had he known? Had she been seen entering his chamber? Wouldn’t whomever had seen her remain to see when she left, which was, admittedly, at least a half an hour later? Why would Rosewood want to ruin her? Was it merely so that he could marry her and gain her enormous dowry? And rather convenient that she had sprinted into his bedchamber. But perhaps Rosewood had simply known that the girl was a loose cannon and decided to take advantage of the opportunity. It wasn’t every day you were the guardian of an extremely wealthy young woman caught in a compromising position and Rosewood seemed like the type to capitalize on another’s misfortune.
But why not simply compromise her himself? Had he tried? His blood ran cold at the thought of Rosewood forcing himself on Lady Delia. But why had she run into his bedchamber in the middle of the night if not to meet a lover?
Durham was deep in thought when he walked into the gentlemen’s lounge and straight into his friend, the Earl of Blackwell. Lord Blackwell regarded him with some interest and motioned him to follow him outside to the terrace.
“Whatever happened while you were at Washburn Court that is generating such furious talk?” the Earl asked, without introduction. “Quite a bit of trouble, from what I’m hearing, and you never said a word! I admit I am very surprised at the gossip that I am hearing, particularly since I never listen to gossip.”
“Well nothing on the order of what you are hearing occurred, Simon,” the Marquess elected to prevaricate a little in the crowded ballroom, “and I am sure I do not understand why Christopher Rosewood would inform a notorious gossip of facts deleterious to his own ward!”
“Facts, Durham? Is it true, then? I have never known you to seduce virgins, at least ones who were put forth as a suitable parti for those such as yourself.” Blackwell observed his friend with a look of disapproval and Durham cursed his clouded thoughts.
“I did no such thing!” the Marquess responded with more vehemence than he had intended. Then, striding quickly to the corner of an empty study with his friend following close behind, explained. “In fact, I have told no one, but in truth, I was in my bedchamber--in my actual bed--preparing for a long and peaceful night’s rest, when a young female person, in the form of Lady Delia Ellsworth came running pell-mell into my room, jumped into my bed and pulled the covers to her chin.”
Simon regarded his friend suspiciously. “You didn’t arrange for that to happen?” he queried, warningly.
“Good God, no! You know very well I have nothing to do with virgins. I was as shocked as she was…” Durham stared off into the distance. He thought to himself that Lady Delia had seemed just as surprised as he was at finding the bed occupied. That probably wouldn’t have been the case had she been expecting someone…would it?
“She was shocked to find you in that bed? I expect she was. It’s a wonder that she didn’t scream her head off.”
“Well, she tried. But I—I stopped her.” For some reason, Durham felt uncomfortable relating the rest of his encounter with Delia.
“You what? How?” The two men exchanged a dark look.
“I did not compromise Delia Ellsworth, in any way,” Durham said coldly, “But this whole dratted situation is smelling worse and worse. I intend to find out why Christopher Rosewood is spreading rumors that he knows will ruin his ward and how he knew she was ever in my room in the first place.”
“To be perfectly fair,” said Blackwell scrupulously, “it was your room. There is, after all, not an unheard-of reputation to be contended with.”
“I have no reputation for seducing chits just out of the schoolroom,” replied Durham irritably. Then he saw his friend’s mouth turn up in a half smile.
“I know that,” he said. “But the rest of society is not as well acquainted with your peculiar ethics in regard to adultery and are probably happy to believe whatever Rosewood tells them.”
Durham’s shoulders drooped but he returned his friend’s wry grin. “Fair point.”
“Something very strange is going on,” the Earl said after a pause, “I don’t understand why Rosewood would ensure that the Smythe-Dunston’s ruin Lady Delia’s reputation and then offer to marry her himself. Who wants to marry a ruined debutante?”
“Someone who needs money when that debutante is very rich. And extremely bloody beautiful.” Blackwell gave his friend a sideways glance of confusion. He had never heard his friend speak with so much vehemence about any lady. He wondered what exactly had happened. As they walked back into the ballroom, they passed a trio of young ladies, gossiping.
“So shocking the way she threw herself at the Marquess of Durham!” a blonde one said, fanning herself.
“I never liked the girl myself,” said her friend. “Met her once when she was in London as a schoolgirl. Rather forward, I should say.” The girl’s round figure was not flattered by her too tight, white muslin gown, which was covered in flounces.
Durham observed his friend’s expression of distaste and they both made for the exit to collect their hats, gloves and canes.
“I think I have heard enough about myself this night,” said Durham as they co
llected these items from the footman at the door.
“As have I,” Blackwell replied. “And I’m afraid I have not yet even heard the last.”
Chapter 12
“Oh, Amelia, here it is! Isn’t it beautiful!” Lady Delia Ellsworth burst through the door, her arms full of books wrapped in ribbon. “I was so pleased, I had them wrapped—pretending I was giving them to friends.” Delia was all smiles as she handed copies of her novel to Amelia and her cook, Martha. “Is Sissy here now?” Delia asked of her other maid. She knew that the chance of Martha—or Sissy’s, being able to read was slim, but she felt like they should have copies all the same.
“No, my lady, she’s run out to do a bit of marketing for supper,” Amelia answered. “She can have it when she gets back, though I don’t know that she can read it—I never asked her what if she could read, my lady.” Then Amelia opened the book and demanded that Delia sign it.
“Oh, Amelia, I don’t know if I should!” Delia responded. “No one knows that I wrote the book—there would be such an awful scandal if they did! It was so hard at the bookshop not to tell absolutely everyone inside! I never thought I would be a published author!”
“Well, I am proud to be in your employ, miss,” Martha said with a grin as she wiped her hands on her apron and reached for Delia’s gift. “Hey there now,” said Martha peering down at the deep purple cover of the novel, “Why didn’t you write your whole name as the author? It only says “D.E. Mannering, not Delia Mannering.”
Delia had not told Martha, or Sissy, her real name as she thought it would only court whispers and exposure.
“Yes, well, I didn’t want a lot of publicity and ladies don’t generally write novels, of the romantic kind, in their own names. I was afraid our landlord’s agent might object! So, you see, it’s just easier. I hope you won’t tell a very large number of people, Martha, you see, it could be a little problem?”
“Of course I will never breathe a word, ma’am!” said Martha, slightly awed. “No indeed ma’am. Thank you, ma’am!”
“Oh, Martha. Thank you, but don’t worry, please. It’s not a secret of the crown! Just keep things to yourself, as much as you can.”
“Indeed ma’am! I will get back to the kitchens and fix up something appropriate for this celebratory occasion for dinner, my lady,” and Martha, clasping the book to her ample bosom, strode back through the swinging door from the drawing room toward the kitchen.
“I can’t believe that you did use D.E.!” breathed Amelia.
“…I did! I couldn’t resist. See, here, Annabelle’s Adventures, by D.E. Mannering!
It did seem like an unnecessary risk to use another pseudonym when I already had to use one to rent this house! So, I am Mrs. Mannering to our landlord’s agent and Mrs. Mannering to my publisher and Mrs. Mannering to the world.”
“Delia Ellsworth Mannering,’” Amelia read. “Oh, that is a good idea, my lady. You worked so hard on this book! You deserve to have your name on it, somehow. I do hope it sells a hundred thousand copies!” She held the book up again to examine the signature Delia had scrawled on the front page and smiled with delight.
“You don’t think this will cause you any trouble, do you, my lady?” Amelia asked checking around the corner to ensure to that Martha was nowhere to be found.
“I can’t see why it should. As long as no one discovers that it was written by me, I should have no problems!” Lady Delia sighed. “And we really couldn’t survive if I didn’t write, since the money I saved from Washburn Court won’t last forever. But hopefully I will figure a way to go home, soon. It’s not fair that I’m banished from my own home, thanks to a toadying lecher.” She gave her maid a wry smile. “There is nothing for you to worry about, however, Amelia.”
“Well, I am certain it will be a great success,” Amelia said with finality. “There’s plenty of fainting in the book, my lady?”
“But of course! And plenty of dueling as well. It has everything a romantic novel could need.”
“That’s as it should be,” Amelia replied. “Now, let’s get you dressed for dinner, my lady. It is to be something very special tonight. Martha will outdo herself if I know anything about her.”
“Amelia, I’ve told you I feel ridiculous dressing for dinner when I am the only one eating, but I suppose I can try to forget that tonight.” The two immediately began to discuss plans for Lady Delia’s next novel, to be penned immediately.
Chapter 13
Christopher Rosewood received a note at Washburn Court from Gigi the next day. The letter had been exceptionally explicit with respect to Gigi’s activities with the Marquess and Christopher crumpled it, tossing the paper into the fire. He had known that Gigi would become Durham’s mistress; they had planned it. He had not anticipated that she would so enjoy her new position quite as much as she said she was enjoying it. He mentally shrugged off the twinge of jealousy. He knew that Gigi had tastes that only he, Christopher, could fulfill. She might enjoy the Marquess’ body, but she wouldn’t forget Christopher, or their plan.
His thoughts strayed to the wayward Lady Delia. She had been gone nearly a month and he had remained unable to locate her. Christopher quashed the small twinge of trepidation he felt at her continuing absence. She would not be able to live on her own for long with no way to support herself. And, Christopher thought, she had shown herself most unwilling to entertain the thought of doing what most desperate women with no money found to do to support them. She would return, Christopher assured himself, as the proud chit would never submit to being anyone’s mistress and no decent man would marry her. She was, in the eyes of society, completely ruined, which was why he had sent a note to that effect to his lovely mistress, Gigi.
My Dear Gigi,
I am very pleased that you have successfully trapped the Marquess of Durham into becoming your protector. I trust you have not so entirely succumbed to his various charms as to forget your purpose in becoming his mistress? Remember: do be subtle! The Marquess is a playboy of the ton, but one never knows how he may react if he knew that his secret activities had been discovered. Be careful, Gigi. And think of me when you are together—when you are moaning and whimpering for him, how you will feel when we are finally together, and rich beyond our wildest dreams. Let that thought console you, my love.
On a more unfortunate note, I have yet to discover the whereabouts of The Bitch. She has escaped from me and managed to elude my inquisitors, but she must run out of money soon, unless she becomes a whore, in which case, you, my dear, would certainly be the first to know it. I highly doubt she possesses the requisite skills, but then some men are not as particular. If you hear of anything on that topic, write me at once.
Yours,
Christopher
When she received it, Gigi laughed as she re-folded the letter and placed it carelessly on her delicate cherry writing table. Christopher was so worried about the Marquess being angry at his discovery…he must needs settle down and permit Gigi to operate at her own pace. The Marquess, she thought with a smile, was a lovely man; she intended to enjoy him just a bit longer before she plied him for the information she needed. Yes, Christopher could wait, though she did admit she missed the things he did to her. If only the Marquess could be induced to—
“Madame, the Marquess of Durham,” her maid interrupted her erotic thoughts and Gigi turned to her, pinning a seductive smile on her face and practicing it in the mirror.
“Show him in, of course, Jeanne. He must not be made to wait for me, ever.” Jeanne obediently walked to the front of the small house and bade the Marquess follow her back into the boudoir.
Durham sat down on the only piece of furniture in Gigi’s over-furnished and frothily feminine chamber that did not appear to be at risk of collapse with the weight of a man. Gigi immediately settled herself on the Marquess’ lap. Durham felt a twinge of irritation. Her lush body seemed to overflow the silky negligee she wore and while usually her voluptuousness would stir him immediately, he found himse
lf wishing she were somehow more subtly sensual. She had no discretion, but she was not supposed to. Mistresses were like ripe peaches to be plucked and enjoyed. He forced himself to brush away the memories of the subtly sensual woman of whom he was thinking. Give Lady Delia Ellsworth time, he told himself to think, and she very well might be indistinguishable from Gigi.
“Wine, my darling? Brandy?” She kissed his temple and her warm fingers deftly untied his cravat. Her small warm hand slipped under his shirt and she kissed his mouth while she caressed him.
“Brandy would be fine,” said the Marquess, not wanting to make excuses for refusing refreshment. Maybe then she would be quiet and he could pretend… He rose after she climbed down from his lap to fetch a drink and shrugged with difficulty out of his immaculately tailored coat, cut perfectly to fit his broad shoulders. Wearing nothing but a blood red confection of lace and silk designed to reveal more than it concealed, Gigi’s generous curves danced in front of him as she moved seductively toward the bed, carrying a crystal decanter and two glasses on a silver tray.
“Voila, my lord,” Gigi said as she poured a snifter of brandy. “And where have you been this evening,” she asked moving closer to him, “to neglect me for so long?” She pouted as she stripped off his shirt, pressing her breasts against his chest. Durham did not reply but she gently pressed him backward to sit on the bed. She knelt on the floor to remove his boots. When she looked up, Gigi immediately noticed that the Marquess had finished his drink and she rushed to refill it. Durham noted this and wondered. He resolved to nurse the next glass as Gigi moved up to unfasten his breeches.
“My lord?” Gigi’s red lips parted as she looked up at the Marquess.
A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) Page 6
