Contrasting with his guilty conscience, the Marquess’ body was on fire at the memory and, needing distraction from his raging lust, he left the house in a fury and walked. He found himself at Gigi’s small house not an hour later, not out of any desire to see his mistress, he discovered, but because he could not think of another place that was as far away as where he had set her up, in Sparrow Street. As he patted at his pocket to see if he had his key, he wondered if he even wanted to be there. He had presently no interest in Gigi, but he did need distraction from Lady Delia. After finding the key and turning it in the lock, he noticed a small boy crouching near the house.
“You there, my boy,” the Marquess called to him, “Do you need something? What are you doing down there?”
“Je ne parle pas l’anglais,” the boy answered in French. The Marquess was about to reply in kind when Gigi herself, clad only in a distracting ensemble of peach silk, opened the door.
“Do come in, my lord,” she said through lowered lashes. “I was so hoping you would come today but I was afraid I had missed you!” She made a little moue with her mouth and beckoned him in. “I have a surprise for you.” She floated through the house to her bedroom, hips swaying with calculated seduction every step of the way.
“Is that so?” he asked absently as Gigi led him to her bedroom, noticing that he no longer seemed taken in by her transparent attempts to make him desire her. Had he really been that easily led before? Every tiny movement of her body was carefully planned to be as seductive as possible. He wondered at the slight annoyance he felt at her act, given it was entirely performed for his own benefit.
“I have kept this for a special occasion,” Gigi said as she reached to the top shelf in an armoire in her bedchamber. “I know how you do appreciate fine brandy, and this is the finest my country has to offer.” Her eyes fixed on his face as she poured and Durham wondered for what purpose she was so obviously scrutinizing him. Then he noticed the label on the bottle. He himself had smuggled the brand from France. The finest France had to offer was certainly a correct assessment, but he wondered how she had acquired it.
“This is quite superb, Gigi,” he said as he sipped, “I only wonder how you came to be in possession of such a bottle?”
Gigi’s dark eyes fixed on the snifter now in his hand. “Certainly you don’t doubt the ability of a Frenchwoman to use her wiles to get a bit of what is forbidden?” Her innuendo was not lost on Durham but he hid his frown. “Have you ever tasted this kind before?” she asked, her eyes wide with innocent inquiry.
The Marquess sensed that she already knew the answer and began to wonder how much information he could get out of her before she realized that he was not fooled. “What a silly question, Gigi. How could I have avoided the finest bottle when I claim to be a connoisseur? Now come here and cease this talk of alcohol.” She obeyed his directive to come closer and as she did so, slipped off her peignoir to reveal a tiny and highly transparent matching negligee. He barely noticed. He didn’t usually tire of mistresses this quickly.
“But don’t you ever wonder, my lord,” Gigi asked as she trailed kisses over his chest as she began to undress him, “how it gets here? It’s so hard to smuggle but the duties on French brandy are so high that no one buys it legally.” She continued to kiss as she tried to get him to talk.
“What concern would that be of mine?” Durham said as he watched her white fingers begin to unfasten his breeches. Her breasts were on full display in the negligee, white and round and so soft but he felt only the dimmest urge to touch them. Gigi, he decided, was definitely not pleasing him. Not only was she unsuccessful at distracting him from Lady Delia, but she clearly was up to something and that meant he could not continue to keep her.
Maybe she had a supplier back at home of the brandy and was looking for a way to get into England and make the money that went with it. He decided he would leave.
“Gigi, darling, I’m afraid I should not have come over tonight. I am quite too exhausted to live up to your appetites,” he said, hoping that his tone betrayed none of his suspicion. But he had no interest in making love to her tonight or any night, ever again. “Please forgive my hideous rudeness.” He stood and Gigi’s shock was obvious on her face. He tried to ease it, lest she grow suspicious. “I drank far too much of your countrymen’s delightful brandy and I’m afraid I am in no condition to spend the night.”
Gigi looked terribly disappointed but arranged her features into a seductive pout. “I have never noticed this problem with you before, my lord,” she purred, rising to her knees. “But if you say so, I must obey. I will wait for you tomorrow.”
Durham left as she was drawing off her chemise to leave him with a glimpse of her kneeling, naked body and waving the silk at him as he went. He would not return to her house, he thought, ever again.
When he arrived back at Durham House, it was after two-o’clock in the morning and he collapsed into bed until waking at nine. Once awake, he wrote out a message to be sent to the Earl of Blackwell and rang for Melville.
“Melville, I have an errand for you to run,” Mason said as his valet arrived.
“My lord?”
“I wish you to go to Gigi’s house and procure any written correspondence to her from her writing desk that appears to be anything but a bill and bring it to me immediately.”
Melville, instead of demanding to know why his lordship wished him to rob his mistress, pulled a packet of papers from his pocket.
“I have already done so, my lord.”
The Marquess started. “What!”
“I noticed that whenever you returned home from Madame’s apartments, you smelled of brandy. Since it is unusual for you to overindulge, it occurred to me to wonder why Madame should be always inducing you to drink. I visited her apartments several times at arbitrary hours and noticed that a good many disreputable looking male children came and went from her house with alarming regularity. On one occasion, I began to speak to one of the children but he regarded me in confusion. It appeared upon further inspection that the child spoke only French, my lord.”
“Is that so?” Durham recalled his own encounter with a French-speaking child that very evening.
“Indeed, sir. At this point, I became suspicious of the child, as he had been there the day before. On the next day, when a different boy arrived, I spoke to him as well. I asked the child, in French, if he would like a piece of candy. Being a young child, he of course asserted he would very much like a piece of candy. I asked him if I could see the letter he was carrying. The child then appeared alarmed and indicated that he was not to give the letter to anyone but to leave it to be collected at a later time. I told the child that it seemed like a very good idea to simply deposit the letter and run along home and I would provide another piece of candy. After a small moment of consideration, the child agreed. I obtained the letter from the child and, when he had departed, opened and read it.”
The Marquess sat in silence, shocked at how blind he had been to Gigi’s machinations. She had been constantly pushing brandy on him. He motioned for Melville to continue.
“The letter was from a man, unsigned, directing Madame to push your lordship for information, but to be discreet. About what, I could not determine from that letter. I returned to Madame’s apartments after I knew you had visited her and took with me a glove of your lordship’s. Upon observing Madame had gone out shopping for the day, I informed her maid that I wished to collect a glove that your lordship had previously left behind. She let me in and once she had shown me Madame’s boudoir, disappeared upstairs. I collected all apparently relevant correspondence from Madame’s desk and left with the glove I had tucked in my pocket obviously displayed in my hand as I thanked the maid and departed. He are the letters I collected, my lord.”
“Melville, I am speechless. As usual, your work is unparalleled. However, I must ask why you did not seek to inform me earlier of your actions? Unless you enjoy seeing me being made the dupe of a French whore?”
“My lord, do not degrade yourself so. It was essential for your relationship with Madame to remain unchanged as I investigated her activities. As long as she suspected nothing, she would continue to be careless and fail to hide any damaging correspondence, such as that which I have procured for you.”
Durham sat in his chair and thanked Melville again. “Lord Blackwell should be informed and will wish to discuss these letters with him as soon as might be arranged. Would you send a note to that effect? I will need to apprise him of Gigi’s status as my former mistress but of course her role in this situation cannot be concealed. I cannot help but feel a bit of the fool. I only hope Simon does not judge me too harshly.”
“I am sure that the Earl will be very understanding, my lord. He is, after all, a man who enjoys brandy as much as the next,” responded Melville generously. At that moment, Weebold appeared to collect Durham’s letter for Blackwell and the Marquess contemplated his options for the day.
To be sure, he must first see Lady Delia. It was without question that he apologize for his mortifying behavior. The thought of that monstrous Rosewood hurting her in any way made his blood boil; how had he not seen the signs while he was at Washburn Court? He did notice that there was some sort of disagreement between the two but he chalked it up to their relative closeness in age and Lady Delia’s grief. Rosewood had certainly been an ass and an oily pretension that he disliked but to Durham’s disappointment, he could recall no hint of the truly criminal in him. Nothing that would have suggested he would assault his ward or attempt to force her to marry him.
With Melville’s help, Durham dressed with care and brushed his hair into its usual waves. His coat was a deep forest green and he had a waistcoat of the same shade with breeches the color of pale straw. His cravat was immaculately white and tied with the precision only Melville could manage. He condescended to accept an emerald stick-pin in one of the folds, much to his valet’s pleasure.
“If you will permit me to compliment my own work, your lordship is in excellent looks today. You resemble nothing so much as a frothing waterfall, into which a splash of a diamond—“
“That’s quite enough, Melville,” the Marquess replied. “I am very aware that I would look like vagabond on the streets if not for your efforts, but it does seem in poor taste to remind me daily of my sartorial shortcomings.”
“It is among the various reminders I endeavor to provide to your lordship on a daily basis.”
“For which I am, of course, infinitely grateful,” Durham said with a twist to his smile. “You, Melville, lack that quality that is most sought after in contemporary domestic help, and that is the quality of obsequiousness.”
“I must apologize for all of my inadequacies quite frequently, my lord.”
“Which are, of course, nonexistent. Speaking of your talents, any news on the ship that concerned us?”
“Not at this time, your lordship. However, I do anticipate a communication that might clarify some of our difficulties in the next several days, even if it only eliminates one potential source of the mischief.”
“Brilliant, as usual, Melville,” replied Durham with an appreciative nod. “As I have absolutely no idea, which is quite terrifying.”
“I endeavor to give satisfaction, my lord.”
“You endeavor correctly. I will be back later this afternoon after lunching at my club.”
“Indeed, sir.” Melville’s tousled appearance looked more than usually untidy and the Marquess wondered if he hadn’t been out the night before, asking his contacts for any information they might have on fraudulent ships, France, brandy or any other of the million things he had likely decided might aid them in their search.
Once outside, Durham headed immediately to 19 Charles Street. He had elected to walk, rather than take his own curricle or horse, because he did not wish it to be recognized in the unlikely event that anyone discovered it was Lady Delia Ellsworth who resided at that address. He was certain absolutely no one would believe his denials after that, including himself. It was a nearly forty-minute walk from Durham House in Grosvenor Square, but the brisk exercise did him good and the Marquess preferred the chill air to the confines of a hackney coach. Upon approaching the tidy but hardly fashionable address, he presented himself at the door and produced a card to request “Mrs. Mannering.”
The neat maid, who bobbed a small curtsy and gave her name as Sissy, opened the door and did not recognize him. He presented himself as the Marquess of Durham and her eyes widened.
“Ma’am is not home, milord!” she squeaked.
Durham frowned. This was not a popular time for calls, and he did not assume that she would be out.
“Do you know when I might return and find her at home?” The Marquess asked patiently. The girl looked backward up the stairs nervously.
“I’m not rightly sure, milord! I just don’t know!” She looked back up the stairs again. He wondered if Lady Delia had instructed her not to open the door to anyone, regardless of who they might be. Perhaps that was why she kept looking back.
“Perhaps I will call again later,” Mason replied and turned around to walk back down the steps into the street. He looked back at the house and then upstairs to the windows and thought he saw a lace curtain move, but could not be sure. It seemed possible that Lady Delia would be avoiding him, but she could not avoid him forever. And he did not intend to wait long.
After lunching at his club, he decided to return to see if Lady Delia had yet decided to receive him. This time, at his ring, the door was answered by a lady who appeared to be a cook and gave her name at “Martha” at his inquiry. He again presented his card.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Mannering is not at home,” she said after glancing at his card.
“I called earlier, my good woman, and was hoping that she had returned.”
“I do apologize, my lord, but I must tell you that Mrs. Mannering isn’t in. I can, of course, give her your card, if you like?”
The Marquess handed over his card and turned to walk down the small steps of the house. Lady Delia was most definitely avoiding him.
Chapter 20
When Lady Delia returned home that evening, it was after a long day with her editor and publisher, reviewing and revising the novel. The gentlemen at Wright & Wright were indeed pleased with her most recent effort but had complained that the manuscript was not yet finished. She had pled for more time but was also aware that these concerns of timeliness were of the utmost import, when they suggested her readership would suffer with any more significant delays. The attentions of the ton, they reminded her, were notoriously capricious. Reluctantly, she had agreed to finish the book in two additional weeks, which meant she would need go immediately to work on the manuscript that night and continue to write, day and night, to get it finished.
Lady Delia stepped into the neat and modest entrance of her home and called for Amelia, but her maid did not respond. She walked into the strangely empty drawing room and jumped as she saw the Marquess of Durham sitting comfortably in one of her attractive, serviceable chairs.
“What are you doing here!” she nearly shrieked, managing only barely to keep her reticule from falling from her shocked fingers as she jumped with surprise.
“You have been avoiding me.”
“Indeed I have not! And even if I had, that by no means should give you leave for entering my home without permission!”
“But I did have permission, Lady Delia. You may be content that I am invited, as your maid Amelia left me to wait in this charming drawing room.”
“She left you in this room?”
“Quite. After I had explained that I was here on a matter of some urgency involving your guardian—that matter of urgency being that Mr. Rosewood is searching for you and not so far behind you as you would prefer. She immediately comprehended the necessity of permitting me to wait for you.”
Delia gasped and her brows drew together in confusion.
“How do you know—how could you
possibly?” Delia began.
“My dear Lady Delia, you wrote the story of the whole thing in that absurd romance novel you published under a barely disguised nom de plume! Could you possibly not anticipate that I would guess you had fled Mr. Rosewood?” Delia gazed at the Marquess with incomprehension not unmixed with a new feeling of approbation.
“You read romance novels?”
“I can assure you that your original suspicions on that front are correct. I do not read romances. However, I heard the tale from my dear sister Harriet, who noted its marked similarity to a story, currently circulating in the ton, regarding a Lady Delia Ellsworth and myself. I read your book only to verify that it was in fact, likely to be you who wrote it and I confess I found my suspicions to be quite justified.”
Delia felt slightly dizzy and walked quickly to the settee to sit down. For the first time in her acquaintance with the Marquess, her lightheadedness wasn’t even due to his large, intimidating presence. She was, frankly, horrified. It appeared that everyone in society knew what had occurred at Washburn Court.
“Why on earth should you do that to me? You made it quite clear from that night you refused to be responsible for ‘ruining’ me—so why would you tell anyone? Just to punish me for frightening you?” Her hand shook slightly and she fought back tears. Durham was immediately at her side and, taking her hands, he looked directly into her eyes. Lady Delia looked into his suddenly sympathetic and compassionate dark eyes and felt her heart give an alarming lurch.
Those black eyes were framed by gorgeous long lashes and dramatic brows that made him look like a copy of a patrician but devilishly handsome Greek god. The look in them, in such contrast to her previous encounters, was so compassionate that she could hardly bear that he would do something so pointlessly cruel. His voice came out, low and harsh and the depth of feeling surprised her.
A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) Page 10
