by Robin Gideon
Celeste’s eyes narrowed. “Gregg Fallon? Why would that concern me?”
“It concerns you because what he plans to do is declare that oaf you tragically call a husband is incompetent to run his own affairs. The claim, my dear friend, is that you are responsible for Ralph’s squalor, and therefore, Gregg should be named executor of his son’s estate.”
“Son’s estate!” Celeste exclaimed. “It’s my money! It’s my money Ralph uses to gamble and buy his foul women with!”
Francesca rubbed her temple with a forefinger for a moment. “From what I have heard, James Watkins is going to use the Prince Regent’s ascension to the throne after George III’s insanity as precedence for assuming control of your wealth.”
“He can’t. It’s. My. Money!”
“My dear, this is England, and you know as well as I that the instant you become a bride, whatever money you had belongs to your husband. By law, you have astonishingly few rights. That’s simply the way it is.”
Celeste felt as though all the air in the room had suddenly been sucked out. She put a hand to her chest and stared at the floor, the injustice of the English legal system almost beyond her comprehension.
She had an enemy now. A flesh-and-blood enemy who was willing to do anything to steal, through legal means, the considerable fortune her father had earned and which Ralph had received upon her marriage so many years ago.
“What…what can I do?” Celeste asked in a whisper.
“I have made inquiries but have received no answers yet. This information I received came to me only yesterday. Naturally, I wanted to warn you as quickly as possible.” Francesca leaned forward and patted Celeste’s hand. “My husband is a duke, and his legal advisors are formidable. We will fight for what is rightly yours.”
“My husband is a cretin, and when he’s not besotted, he’s got a good brain. My father-in-law is another matter. He’s no fool, Francesca, and he’s never in his cups. I’ve heard stories about him, frightening stories. It is said he’s not afraid to use a dagger to get what he wants.”
“He’s more likely to use a barrister instead of a dagger in this case.”
Thirty minutes later, with the subject of Gregg Fallon and his hiring of James Watkins thoroughly aired, Celeste felt it time to discuss another topic—one requiring some assistance from her worldly friend, the duchess.
“Francesca, are you and the duke ever intimate?”
The duchess shook her head. “He is a darling companion when we are together, but we seldom are. He spends most of his time at his estates in Bath, and I stay here in London. There was a time when he was my husband and my lover. Now he is just my husband, but a more witty conversationalist you will never find.”
“And you take steps to not have more children?”
The duchess cocked her head to one side, giving Celeste a searching look. “Of course, I take steps. My dear friend, perhaps it would be best if you—” A smile touched her mouth and put a devilish twinkle in her sky-blue eyes. “You have taken a lover! You have finally taken a lover!”
Celeste smiled, felt herself blush, and looked away. She had thought it would be difficult to tell Francesca the truth, but now that her dalliance was known, she felt only great relief.
“You will need Danish sponges, and they are not easy to get without word getting around,” Francesca said, still smiling, though her tone had become more serious. “Danish sponges work the best. They are easy to use and fit in a woman’s handbag.” She nibbled on her lower lip. “And this lover of yours, he is big?” She put up her hands, putting them far apart, then very close together, then far apart again. “Big enough to give you pleasure?”
Celeste’s blush heated even more. “He’s almost too big. Before him, there has only been Ralph, and he’s not…” She let the words die away. She had been in enough whispered conversations with friends to know, at least through secondhand knowledge, that her husband’s organ was woefully undersized.
Francesca rose from her chair, went to the corner of the room, and gave the braided, velvet bellpull three firm tugs. She was barely back in her chair before the door opened and a young woman in a cream-colored chambermaid’s dress stepped in and crossed the room.
“You wish to see me, Your Grace?”
Celeste felt a rush of excitement go through her veins at seeing her friend’s newest chambermaid. The girl—and a girl she was because Celeste suspected she couldn’t be more than nineteen—was short, slender, her features delicate, her mouth small, her breasts petite. She was attractive in a delicate sort of way, and Celeste tried not to think about what the petite girl did with the voluptuous Duchess of Shermley. About matters of that nature, Celeste hadn’t even gossiped with her sisters.
“Collette, I will need three Danish sponges.” She paused a moment, considering. “And some of the Greek ointment, as well.” She smiled at Celeste. “Just to be on the safe side. If you’ve been celibate for a while, the Greek ointment can help…um…ease the transition into a more active life.” She grinned slyly. “It was created for those who prefer to take their pleasures in a more Mediterranean fashion, though its usefulness needn’t be so precise.”
Celeste was amazed that her friend delivered the statement without the slightest trace of embarrassment.
“And, Collette,” the duchess continued, “please see that they are discreetly packaged.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
With the faintest nod of her head, Francesca dismissed her maid, who left the room without a sound.
“She’s lovely,” Celeste said softly. “Wherever did you find her?”
“It’s a story for another time.” The duchess made a motion with her hand as though to sweep away the subject. “Will you share with me the identity of your lover?”
Celeste hesitated, but not for long. “He is a servant. Ralph hired him.”
Francesca fairly bolted to her feet. She went to the window and looked out. “Is it the lovely young man standing with your carriage? Oh, my lucky, lucky friend, he is marvelous! Such a beauty, and so young.”
“I’m sorry to shatter your expectations, but he is not my lover.”
Francesca turned away from the window with a bewildered look. “And why is he not your lover? He is beautiful.” She sat in her chair again and crossed her legs at the knee. “Now tell me how your lover seduced you. Tell me he is a skilled lover, or I will be disappointed in your judgment.”
Celeste gave her friend several intimate details, though she kept secret Heath’s binding of her wrists with a hayloft rope. She just couldn’t figure out how she could possibly explain how it had been wildly arousing to be tied up and helpless, that the rough texture of the hemp rope against her skin had heightened her senses and made her orgasm supremely powerful. She didn’t understand these things herself, so she was certain she couldn’t make Francesca understand.
“I’m guessing you’ve never used sponges before,” Francesca continued. “If so, my dear friend, then listen carefully. I will tell you everything you need to know.”
Celeste smiled. “I knew all along coming to you was the smartest thing I could do.”
* * * *
Gregg Fallon looked at the bookcases lining the walls of James Watkins’s office. There was, quite literally, not an inch of spare space unoccupied by thick, leather-bound volumes explaining the arcane intricacies of British law. The books gave Gregg a feeling of confidence, letting him know he’d chosen the right man for the job.
“I know it has only been a couple days, but what can you tell me?” he asked, taking a chair facing the barrister’s enormous oak desk.
“We’ll have to go through the courts, as you had surmised, but I have found some members of Parliament—well, just one member, though I think there may soon be more—who would be interested in advocating for our cause. A voice, speaking on our behalf and coming from Parliament, would be a powerful asset.” His gaze leveled upon Gregg, who had a sudden sense of foreboding. “Of course, that kind of h
elp comes at a price. You were aware of that, were you not?”
Actually, Gregg hadn’t considered bribery a necessity, having believed a shrewd and unscrupulous legal mind working on his behalf was all he needed, but he saw no reason to admit to ignorance. He said, “I am a successful businessman, Mr. Watkins. No successful businessman in London can be entirely naive about the benefits of bribery. Let’s do try to keep our largesse to a minimum though. And please, make sure of the outcome before you start spreading my money around too freely.”
“Of course, Mr. Fallon.” The barrister showed his teeth in an expression that might have been a smile. “My clients always get everything they’ve paid for.”
* * * *
Celeste shrugged out of her light jacket and began unbuttoning her blouse. It was time to dress for the evening meal, and she was a little surprised Margaret hadn’t arrived yet at her bedroom. Margaret was a stickler for formality, and she always helped her mistress dress properly for dinners.
It had been days since Celeste had been with Heath. She had seen him twice, but only from a distance, and on neither occasion had she been able to speak to him. Ralph had kept Heath busy with a series of errands, the nature of which he did not explain.
On one occasion, she was about to be driven by Laine to see her friend Fiona Kahlos when she saw Heath stepping out of his living quarters and into the courtyard. Their gazes met, and for several seconds, neither of them moved. Then she moved her gloved hand in greeting, raising it only a little for fear she might be seen. The motion wasn’t much, but it prompted a full, open smile from him. The smile warmed her heart, and she told herself patience was a virtue and that soon she would be with him again. And now she was in possession of the Danish sponges, which would protect her.
Margaret knocked on the bedroom door and then entered. As usual, she felt no need to wait for an invitation—an informality which didn’t particularly bother Celeste, since she was almost never doing anything in her bedroom she would be embarrassed for her maid to see. But as she selected Celeste’s clothes, Margaret wouldn’t look her mistress directly in the eyes.
“All right, Margaret, what is it you’re not telling me?” Celeste asked.
“It’s nothing, m’lady.”
“You’re a wonderful servant but a terrible liar. Now tell me what’s happening in this house to make you so fidgety.”
Margaret shook her head. “It’s nothing, m’lady. I ’spect you’ll be dining alone tonight. Master Fallon is otherwise occupied.”
The words did not at first seem terribly threatening to Celeste, since Ralph was often otherwise occupied. But then, after several seconds, a deadly chill went through her, and she shivered as she sat in front of her dressing mirror.
“Thank you, Margaret. I’ll finish dressing from here.”
“But, m’lady, I always—”
“Thank you, Margaret.” Her voice was stern. She looked at her maid through the reflection in the mirror. “I’m not angry with you. But please, leave me alone now.”
She heard her bedroom door open and close. What was Ralph up to this time? Whatever it was, it was something new, something shocking to the household staff. Had Ralph drunk himself insensate in the library? Perhaps he had urinated in his trousers, as he had done a few years earlier during the celebration for the Queen’s birthday.
Feeling more embarrassed than hurt, vaguely curious of what despicable thing her husband was responsible for this time, she stepped out of her bedroom and into the hallway. To her left, she saw Margaret talking with two younger chambermaids. Their heads were close together, and Margaret was whispering. When they noticed her, all three walked away.
“It can’t be as bad as all that,” Celeste murmured to herself.
Had she picked up the ton’s fetish for gambling, like so many other women of her social station, she would have put money on finding her husband within the next few minutes passed out cold from gin. He might even have soiled himself, and now the servants didn’t know whether to wake him up and help him into bed, or just leave him alone.
Deciding to start with the most obvious place, she crossed the hall and stood outside of Ralph’s bedroom door, listening carefully. Hearing nothing, she turned the knob and opened the door several inches, remaining quiet even though she was quite certain disturbing her dipsomaniacal husband was quite impossible.
“It just ain’t gettin’ hard, m’lord.”
It was a female voice. Young and uneducated. It came from the direction of the fireplace on the east wall. Celeste held her breath, part of her wanting to throw the door open wide and scream, and part of her wanting to quietly close the door, walk away, and pretend it had never happened.
But she had to know—to know for sure. She eased the door open another two inches until she could see the large, wing-backed chair angled toward the unlit fireplace. Celeste was behind Ralph and to his left. He held a three-quarters empty bottle of gin in his left hand, and his right hand was resting atop a slowly bobbing blonde head in his lap. She couldn’t see the girl’s face, just her blonde hair beneath Ralph’s hand.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” Ralph said, his words slurred with alcohol. “I can get it up. I just need a little inspiration from you.” He chuckled malevolently. “Either you get it up for me, or I get my money back.”
Celeste closed the bedroom door soundlessly, not disturbing either of the room’s occupants. For a moment, she thought she would become physically ill, but then she squared her shoulders, took several deep breaths to calm herself, and walked back down the hallway toward the dining room.
It didn’t really bother her that Ralph had hired a prostitute. He had hired so many prostitutes in the past, and made so little effort at keeping his activities a secret from her, she had become inured to her husband’s sexual dalliances. But what did bother her, what hurt her deeply, was that he had brought the prostitute into her home. To the best of her knowledge, it was the first time he’d ever done it, and she felt particularly violated because of it.
* * * *
“Do you want me to take you somewhere, m’lady?” Laine asked.
Celeste shook her head. “I just wanted to ask Heath a question. Do you know where he is?” A few feet to her left hung the hayloft rope that had been so instrumental in seducing her, and though she tried to keep her eyes away from it, she couldn’t.
“I believe he’s on an errand for Master Fallon.”
“Did he say when he would return?”
Laine shook his head, his long, wavy, brown hair brushing his collar. He appeared to be so young and fresh and innocent, like a long-legged colt, but Heath had intimated that the boy’s previous employers had been dissolute in the extreme and had unleashed their aberrant behavior on their hapless young servant—so he couldn’t be as innocent as he appeared.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Laine asked, leaning the hayfork against an inside wall of the stable.
Celeste looked at the hayloft rope again. Seeing it made her jittery. “I don’t want to take you away from your assigned chores.”
“I’ve finished with everything Heath told me to do.” He shrugged and grinned. “I just think it’s a good idea to stay busy. Heath doesn’t like to see me lazing around.”
Laine would be a sensitive lover.
The thought was jolting, and for a moment, Celeste closed her eyes and turned her face away.
“Did I say something wrong, m’lady?”
“No, no, of course not. I just had a thought, is all.” But when she looked into his doe-like, brown eyes, she saw a tenderness there she’d never seen in Ralph’s eyes. “I think it’s time for you to stop working for the day, Laine. Don’t worry about Heath. I’ll let him know you’re a hard worker.”
“Thank you, m’lady. I knew it was my lucky day when I got the job here. I could feel it in my bones.”
Yes, you could feel it in your bones. And if I don’t walk away from you this instant, I’ll be wanting to feel your bone
s on top of me.
Chapter Five
Ralph completely disgusted Celeste by passing out the following evening at the dinner table, his head against the back of the high-backed table chair, his mouth open as he snored.
“Leave him there,” she said coldly, looking at her husband though she spoke to two women from the kitchen staff. “Clean up the table, leave a couple candles lit, and do your best to not disturb him. If he asks for me, tell him I’ve gone to see Fiona Kahlos.” Fiona had made no effort to hide her contempt for Ralph Fallon, so Celeste doubted he would try to contact her there. “I should be back by midnight.”
“Should I fetch one of the coachmen for you, Lady Celeste?” a kitchen maid asked, wiping her wash-reddened hands nervously on a damp apron.
“No, I’ll do it myself.” She started for the door then stopped herself. She turned once more to her kitchen staff and said in a soft but assertive voice, “I would appreciate it very much if you would not talk about this to any of the staff. When you finish cleaning this room, you can both go to your rooms and consider yourself finished for the night.”
Both women smiled, clearly assured Celeste wouldn’t roust them from their beds in a couple hours to provide food or drink, which was just what she wanted.
Celeste’s heart raced in her chest, though outwardly she did her best to appear perfectly calm. She had reached the age of thirty-six without having practiced the art of deception more than a few times, and then she was only trying to cover up the most mild of offenses. But tonight, she hoped to deceive her kitchen staff, Margaret, and the rest of her chambermaids, and should Ralph awaken from his alcoholic slumber, him as well.
She went back to her bedroom and looked at herself in the dressing mirror. Her gown was certainly not her finest, but then she hadn’t expected to see anyone other than Ralph and the servants. She thought briefly of changing into the Elizabeth Saxby gown Francesca had said she looked so striking in then opted against it. Just to get Saxby to make a dress meant getting on a waiting list of several months, and the modiste’s sense of style was unmistakable. One simply did not put on a Saxby creation just to go see an old friend. She had opted for comfort instead of high fashion and decided to go without her underbust corset, so it wouldn’t be an impediment to romance. A sly smile touched her lips as she thought, I will be bouncing around a bit when I walk. I hope Heath likes that in a woman…
