Mistress by Midnight

by Maggie Robinson

  Laurette felt a flash of shame. Even if he was Con’s servant, this man in his exotic finery far outshone her. Well, she was now Con’s servant too, and expected the marquess would remedy the poverty of her possessions. “Yes. These are not heavy. I can help you.”

  “Do not think to do so. You are my master’s beloved. He would have my head if you should lift a finger. I shall return.” Aram went to seek Mrs. Bagshot, who would probably tack a pound or three to their bill.

  “My master’s beloved,” Laurette whispered. Once it had been so. But it would be too much to hope that it would ever be true again.

  Chapter 4

  Laurette spent the entire carriage ride composing a letter to Sadie in her head. There was no point Laurette’s trying to conceal her circumstances—Sadie was and always had been much more than Laurette’s maid-of-all-work. Sadie was the one who told her, for goodness’ sake, that she was expecting Con’s child. Laurette had been too numb from losing him to pay attention to sleep or food or her courses. Once Con was travelling on his honeymoon, Laurette had been too sick to get out of bed, but her illness was not mere heartbreak.

  Laurette pushed that unhappy time from her mind. Her parents had been disappointed and disgusted with her, but had at least benefitted from Mr. Berryman’s bribery. She had managed to sort her life out since, and would have been fine had her idiot brother not become Conover’s mark.

  Aram sat opposite, his dark eyes closed. Laurette supposed he had seen a great many odd things travelling and working for Con. For all she knew, she was just one of many women Aram escorted into Con’s harem.

  She cleared her throat. “How much farther, sir?” How ridiculous that she did not know her own address.

  He looked at her then, his eyes nearly as dark as Con’s, but kinder. “It is but a few minutes more, my lady.”

  There was no point in correcting him and pointing out she was plain Miss Vincent. Con’s house must be far from the squalid neighborhood of Charlie’s boarding house. She would be glad to get the scent of sweat and cabbage out of her nostrils.

  “Have you seen the house?”

  “Indeed, my lady. My wife and I have been making it ready for you these past weeks. It is our fervent wish, and my master’s also, that you will find everything to your liking.”

  Weeks! How sure Con had been of her desperation. She had only written to him five days ago. She swallowed her irritation. It was not Aram’s fault he was employed by a ruthless bastard.

  “I am sure I will like it as well as I can under the circumstances.” She bit her lip. “I am to be the only resident, am I not?” How humiliating it would be to discover some other poor woman—or women—in the Marquess of Conover’s debt.

  Rumors had swirled around Con the moment he stepped upon British soil.

  It was whispered he had gone completely native during his exile. His inky hair fell to his shoulders, and his skin was still bronzed though he’d been under the gray skies of England for more than a year. She had seen a tattoo of the Jerusalem Cross on his shoulder in the flickering firelight last night, however, so perhaps it was not true that he was a Musselman with a penchant for multiple wives.

  “Indeed, yes. Apart from the staff, who will do all they can in their power to serve you.”

  “Are you a Christian, Mr. Aram?” she blurted.

  He inclined his head. “My Lord Conover was most ashamed to discover I have more knowledge of the Bible than he does. My wife Nadia is a Christian also.” He smiled. “She would not tolerate sharing my affection, I can assure you. Nadia is a gentle creature, but most intemperate when provoked.”

  “I’ll do my best to be unprovoking.” Laurette sighed. It would be difficult. She felt jailed already.

  The carriage came to a gradual stop in front of a narrow house with a simple façade. It resembled its neighbors in the short street, distinguished only by its deep blue door and fanciful crescent moon and stars doorknocker. For a moment Laurette was reminded of her spangled dress, but surely Con had forgotten about it long ago. Aram helped her alight and escorted her to the door. It was opened at once by a slender dark-skinned woman. Her sober dress was enlivened by a fichu threaded with beads and golden strands.

  “You see, my lady, my beautiful wife. Can you imagine she is mother to six sons? Nadia, may I present Miss Vincent.”

  Nadia curtseyed. “Do not worry, mistress. My boys are not within. We would have not a moment’s peace. The marquess has been so good to find them all employment at his estates.”

  “Don’t you miss them?” The words escaped. She was already being too familiar. Laurette wanted to bite her tongue.

  Nadia waved a slender hand. “They are busy. Two have family of own now. The marquess is generous and gives time for us to be together several times a year. Is not just any man who would have sponsored so many of us to come to your country. We owe great deal. Come, let me show through house.” She turned to Aram and spoke hurriedly in a language Laurette did not understand.

  Nadia’s mastery of English was not as accomplished as her husband’s. Laurette stood uncertainly in the hall while they conversed. Its walls were hung with dark red figured paper. Gleaming brass sconces were set at intervals. A porcelain bowl of feathered tulips stood on a round table in the center of the marble floor. A long corridor to the right of the stairs led to the back of the house, with a door that was open to a walled garden. She could see a profusion of greenery and flowers, and watched as a yellow bird flew by with a chirrup.

  “Please,” she said to Nadia, “may I see the garden first?”

  “Of course. It is only just finished. My lord moved heaven and earth for it to be so.” The woman grinned at her own joke.

  Once outside, Laurette could see that the plants had been selected for their vibrant colors and glossy leaves. Young trees had been placed where someday they might provide shade. Laurette would no longer be here, of course. The path beneath her feet was laid in blue and white ceramic tile, swept clean of any debris. A fountain gurgled at the end, a group of yellow birds frisking on its lip. A low stone bench ran along the back wall. The bricks were stacked high and tipped with ornate metal spikes, guaranteeing peace and privacy. But the upper windows of the neighboring houses had a perfectly good view of Laurette standing in her threadbare dress, a sparrow amongst the exotic trappings of the marquess’s pocket garden.

  “It’s very beautiful.”

  “My lord designed it himself, you know. For you. So you will not miss country.”

  The sound of the water splashing was lulling, much as the ripple of the River Piddle at home had been. Con was very clever.

  “How long has the marquess owned this property?”

  Nadia’s eyes darted away to the busy birds.

  “Please tell me,” Laurette said softly.

  “It has been not quite a year.”

  Laurette had refused Con a year ago. He’d had almost a year to create this love nest and bring her brother to ruin. Perhaps she was not even its first occupant.

  Laurette chewed the inside of her cheek to keep from exploding in anger in front of this woman. It was clear Con could do no wrong in her eyes. He’d imported her family and provided them all with opportunities. It was not always easy to be a Christian in the Holy Land.

  “My lord has excellent taste. Before we came to England, he refurbished villa in Greece. His many friends visited. Sir William Bankes? The famous Lord Byron? But should any thing displease you, my lord will have it changed.” Nadia snapped her fingers.

  “Just like that.”

  Laurette wondered where Con had picked up his aesthetic sense. Ryland Grove had been a comfortable shambles until Marianna redecorated. Laurette followed Nadia back into the house and the ground floor parlor. While not as ornate as Conover House, the room was nevertheless filled with beautiful objects and lush color. The walls were midnight blue silk, the carved woodwork dark. Landscapes of distinctly un-English places hung between the long windows. Laurette examined them and loo
ked out into the street. Con’s carriage had disappeared.

  “The dining room.” Nadia slid the mahogany pocket doors open. The table was already set for one, silver and crystal shining in the bright morning light. “You must give me list of favorite foods to guide Cook. My master most anxious that your palate be pleased.”

  Laurette had not eaten really well since Marianna died. Their weekly luncheons had been enjoyed for both the fare and the company. Laurette’s stomach flipped at the thought of rich food and sauces. She and Sadie had subsisted on very little and her loose gown was proof.

  They climbed the carpeted stairs to the first story. Another reception room faced the street. It was a bold emerald green, the wood floors polished and covered with several shimmering rugs. The furniture was velvet, tufted and low. Embroidered pillows were scattered on the sofas and floor. The hammered brass lamps and vases might have come from some Eastern bazaar. Whereas the parlor downstairs was colorful yet conventional, this space was more foreign. Laurette wondered that Con had not tented the walls and was not surprised to find a palm tree growing in a painted pot.

  “Your bedchamber is down hall. Three more rooms above. Aram and I and your maid occupy two of them. Cook and her helper are below near kitchen. Is small staff, but you will not lift finger.”

  Laurette needed to contact her own small staff. Convincing Sadie to stay put in Dorset would require every ounce of Laurette’s persuasive ability.

  “Is there writing paper in my room? I need to write home.”

  “But of course. The maid Martine is unpacking your things, but all else in readiness.”

  The door to her new bedroom was open. Within a very young maid was looking comically dismayed at Laurette’s belongings. She quickly curtseyed and plastered a smile on her pretty face.

  “Martine, this is your mistress, Miss Vincent.”

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” Martine twisted her hands. “Milord has ordered you the new clothes. Should I perhaps place these things in storage?”

  Laurette did not speak. Could not. Her room literally took her breath away. All was gold within, from the ornate posts on the bed to the satin coverlet to the fringe and braid on the pillows. The walls were pale yellow stippled with a darker abstract design. An enormous mirror framed in gilt hung on the ceiling over the bed, with matching mirrors lining the walls. Laurette felt a blush from the tips of her toes to her ears, imagining her body—and Con’s—reflected in the dazzling glass. An intricately carved wooden screen stood a few feet in front of the single French window, allowing sunlight to filter through. Laurette slipped behind a panel and gazed through sheer drapes to the garden below. She turned the curved brass handle and stepped onto the iron-railed balcony. It was just large enough for a pot of flowers and a delicate chair. She saw a dark-haired woman in the garden beyond the wall and darted back indoors.

  “There’s someone next door.”

  “Do not worry, Miss Vincent. You are safe here. Jane Street is famously exclusive. The neighborhood is most discreet.”

  In other words, the woman she had seen was another man’s mistress. Each little jewel box of a house in this area sheltered a woman just like herself, fallen from grace. No wonder the street was deserted in daylight. There were no nurses with children in prams or morning callers, just women inside, waiting. Even buried in the country, she’d heard about Jane Street. Con must have a fortune indeed to afford a house on it.

  “Mademoiselle, your baggages? What do you desire for me to do?”

  “I don’t care.” Laurette walked past the marble fireplace. Vases of yellow roses and lilies were lined up against yet another mirror. “The dressing room is through this door?”

  “A bathing room,” Nadia said proudly. They entered a room almost half the size of the bedroom. A bank of cupboards was open to display an enormous number of gowns. A tall dresser, a tub, and a screened commode were tucked into corners. A small fireplace, equally bedecked with roses and lilies, was burning brightly despite the spring sunshine. There was a thick Oriental carpet here as well, and a divan with a pile of books stacked neatly at one end.

  “He’s thought of everything, hasn’t he?” Laurette would be lying if she said she was not impressed, but the house did not make her like her position any better. Con of all people should know how it felt to be bought and bullied.

  She remembered what he looked like the first time she saw him after he came back from London. After he’d been bought and bullied himself.

  She’d set off at the back of her garden along the river path and crossed the little stone footbridge to Conover land. She hadn’t gone far when she caught sight of Con striding across the field. He was shirtless, his chest and hair damp with sweat.

  He was beautiful. Like a statue in a museum. Not that she’d ever been to a museum, but she occasionally read her father’s outdated London papers. No Greek statue could compete with Con.

  “Con!” She smiled and waved gaily.

  There was no return smile, but he walked steadily toward her.

  “What are you doing here, Laurette?” He pulled a kerchief from his back pocket and mopped his face and neck. He then quickly untied the shirt from his waist and pulled it over his head as though she hadn’t seen him stripped bare a hundred times.

  “I hoped to see you. At our tree. Is that where you were going?”

  Con shook his head. “No. I was walking the fields. It’s time for the first cut hay. Past time, really. I don’t know why my Uncle Ryland hasn’t thought to do so.”

  Laurette grinned and waved away a bee. “You’ve gone from scholar to farmer! How was your trip?”

  “Beastly.” Con eased himself down in the tall grass. He shaded his eyes with an arm. “Go home, Laurie. I’m not fit for company.”

  “Pooh.” She settled down next to him. “I hope you’re not too tired to dance with me tonight.”

  “I made you a promise.”

  His voice sounded odd. His eyes were closed against the high sun. Laurette pulled the rose from her hair, peeled a petal off and dropped it onto his face. He batted it away impatiently.

  “Really. Just leave me alone. I’ve got to think.”

  She plucked at his damp shirt, wishing she could pull it off again. “I can help you think!”

  “Not this time.” He sat up. “Laurette, the estate is in ruins. Mr. Berryman owns me lock, stock and barrel. I’ve got to find a way to turn a bit of a profit this summer, or—” He clamped his mouth shut.

  “Or what?” Hesitantly, Laurette traced his lips with a fin gertip, but he made no move to open them. Instead, he seized her hand and pulled her up from the ground with him.

  “I’ve got to go. Talk to my bailiff if he’s not too drunk to listen. I’ll see you tonight.”

  He squeezed her hand and dropped it. She watched him stride away, shirttails flapping. Something was terribly wrong, something her beautiful blue dress might not be enough to fix tonight. Laurette scattered the rest of the rose petals in the flattened grass and waited until Con was gone from sight before heading back. Feeling deflated, she went to gather more rosebuds for her bath.

  How far she’d come since then. Now she had a little army to wait on her, and there were enough rosebuds for a week’s worth of baths on the mantel alone.

  “Martine, leave us please.” Nadia spoke a few instructions in French. Laurette recognized “hot water.” She’d had a bath just this morning, a tepid, grudging one to be sure, but she was perfectly clean. She raised an eyebrow to Nadia. Hard what to think of her as. More than a maid. Housekeeper, perhaps. Minder.

  “My lord wishes you to be prepared for him tonight. I shall assist you with that,” Nadia said vaguely. “You find everything you need to write letter in escritoire in bedroom. Aram will have my lord frank it.”

  And read it, too, I’ll wager, Laurette thought.

  She reentered her golden bower and made for the delicate desk. Its legs were gilt in the French style, its writing surface elaborate marquetry, little cubbi
es holding fine weight paper, ivory and silver pens. Several silver-topped crystal pots of ink stood at the ready. Laurette sat in the spindly chair, which was more comfortable than it appeared. Taking a deep breath, she penned a few lines to Sadie, enclosing some of the money Con had given her this morning. She would speak to him later about repairs to Vincent Lodge. Sadie could oversee all of that, and put about that Laurette was remaining in London with friends until the renovations were complete.

  Con had mentioned taking her about in society. Surely he didn’t mean it. People would know at once she was his mistress. He could not expect her to forfeit the reputation she’d worked a dozen years to reclaim. Her friendship with Marianna had done much to squelch the rumors that she and Con had been young lovers before his marriage. Talk had died down when she was seen frequently in the company of his son James. Surely the marchioness would not permit such a thing from a rival.

  And Laurette was known in London. Of course she did not move in the highest circles of the ton, but her brief time with her grandmother after Beatrix was born had won her a few acquaintances.

  England was a very small country with very big gossips. If she was seen on Con’s arm—if her residence in this house was revealed—on the most notorious street in London—all would know that the virtuous Miss Vincent was nothing but a courtesan on “Courtesan Court.”

  Six months of confinement. Six months of staying indoors, or in the perfect little patch of garden, spied upon by other ladybirds. She would go mad.

  “My lady.” Nadia stood at the door to the dressing room. Laurette had been aware of the quiet commotion next door as Nadia and Martine arranged for her bath. “All is in readiness. If you will please to follow me.”

  There was steel behind the woman’s subservient words, as if she expected Laurette to balk. There was no point in taking out her animosity toward Con on his servant. Laurette left her letter and went into the dressing room. Fragrant water was steaming in the bathtub, but it was not quite full. The divan had been draped with several large towels. A bowl and pestle were on the low brass table, along with shears, a razor, powder and other instruments Laurette didn’t recognize. A small brazier with a copper pot atop it had been set before the now-roaring fireplace. The room was close and warm, too warm for a fine spring day. Laurette felt slightly faint.