by Thea Devine
"This is very ill-mannered of you," Lady Waynflete said sharply, "and it doesn't look good."
"Who will know?" Nicholas asked dismissively, shutting the door of the Waynfletes' carriage on Lucretia's protests. "Get in my carriage, Miss Bowen, before someone does see and comment."
He was very arrogant, just the way she most disliked him, and Jainee felt cornered. She looked at Jeremy, who was about to call for his own gig. "Do I have no choice in this matter? I do not wish to be alone with my lord in his carriage, which I think is proper and correct for an eligible woman."
Jeremy shrugged. "You are Nick's plaything, Miss Bowman. I would not override him."
"Nor would you cut off his legs," Jainee retorted.
"Nor would you prefer to walk," Nicholas put in, "if that was about to be your next threat."
"I know when to give over," Jainee said haughtily, seeing no help from Lady Waynflete either. She held out her hand to Nicholas. "You may assist me."
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He did like her air of insolence: it amused him, and so he took her hand and helped her into the carriage, and shot Jeremy a warning look. "I plan to attend Lady Badlington's soiree tonight, Jeremy, if you would care to join me."
"What, go looking for trouble with you once more?" Jeremy said in mock horror. "Well, yes, I think I had better. Who knows what kind of gaming house trollop you'll saddle mother with this time. In an hour, Nick?"
"Sufficient," he agreed, and climbed inside his carriage in the seat opposite Jainee, who sat huddled in the corner surrounded by the warmth of her fur-lined cape, and the consideration of a brazier of coals beneath the seat benches.
"You were wise not to argue for once, Diana," he said as he waved out Lady Waynflete's carriage, and signalled to his own.
"I understand the restrictions," she said dampingly.
"I wish you did," he retorted, "else you would not have worn that dress."
"There is nothing ill-fitting about this dress."
"That, Diana, is my point."
"And very crassly made. But I suppose there have been dozens of trollops for whom you have provided who have followed the mold."
"Oh, dozens," he agreed darkly. "I am forever at the tables just hoping to find one brass-mouthed Aphrodite with whom I can spar words and make scurrilous bargains — "
"Those were not my terms, my lord," Jainee snapped. "I merely wished to come to London, and you truly have had the best of the bargain."
"Let us take account, Diana. Let us tote up the cost in emotional energy in just dealing with you, and add to that the cost of intruding on my dearest friends to house you and lend you countenance, and then, what do you suppose defrays the cost of clothing you for the season in the manner befitting someone of whom — pleasant fiction—I am supposed to be the trustee? It boggles the mind. You have not nearly begun to repay this debt. And yet, and yet—I have taken it on, out of the goodness
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of my heart so that you might have the opportunity to find your . . . father."
"Yes," she hissed.
"I am impressed with the activity of your search, huntress. For one who is forever stalking its prey, you seem hardly to have caught the scent."
"It can make no difference to you," Jainee shot back, stung. Surely he had gotten all from their bargain he had sought. She understood to whom she was beholden, even though she would never admit it to him. And if she felt a little guilt about her almost laissez-faire attitude in commencing her search for her father, she was also certain it was none of his business so long as he got what he expected.
"But it does. Diana," he said unexpectedly. "I am inordinately interested in this phantom father of yours."
She felt unreasonably agitated by this pronouncement, and it took her a minute to pull her wits together to go at him in a different direction.
"Well, so much for my lord's declarations of generosity . . . not to say munificence, and his goodness of heart. Why should it interest you?" she added, hoping that she sounded disinterested, even off-handed, praying she did not give away her uneasiness at this sudden turnabout in his concerns.
"Let us just say that it does, Diana, and that your undertaking from this moment forward is to bend all your effort to identifying this man."
"I — " she began heatedly, and he cut her off.
"I believe you were very emotional about your need to find your father, Diana. I did not forget and I want you to remember. The delights of the season will pall beside the consequences if this man proves not to exist."
She was stunned; she felt more than that—she felt pure tingling shock that he had had a covert motive for accepting her barter. Or had she thought she was such a tasty morsel that no man could resist?
The tension between them had nothing to do with the inti- 196
macy they had shared; in truth, she had been sure this was to have been a carriage ride to carnality, and now she had to contend with the notion that he desired something totally different from her.
She could not make the transition in her thinking; she could not grasp why he would be at all interested in the man who was her father.
However, to confess all of this bewilderment to him was out of the question. If anything, she needed to stand stronger against him than before. If he wanted her father, he must have a reason.
What reason? What inconceivable purpose?
But that was for later, when she was alone and could think things through.
All these contradictory thoughts flew through her mind at breakneck speed; outwardly, she showed none of her apprehension, assuming her habitual, unflappable gaming-table attitude.
It was time to attack, she thought, girding herself. It was time to deflect all this untoward interest in her personal life.
"It is impossible for my father not to exist, my lord."
He smiled grimly. "I bow to your superior logic, Diana. I can only beg the question of whether he exists in England; he may well be living in France in the maw of the Emperor's legendary generosity. And you may well be a traitor. On the other hand, you have had ample opportunity to commence your search. The wonder is you have not found him yet."
She bit her lip. To be sure, Southam had kept his word to her: he had provided the entree and she had already attained a status that was not normally accorded to any newcomer within his circle. In her amorphous plans, she had counted heavily on her having changed so much her father might not recognize her as readily as she would him. She had thought to move among the swells, and at some distant future time, entering a room, sighting him immediately and pointing her accusatory finger.
She had never given a moment's consideration to what might happen next. Nor had she even contemplated the horrifying 197
thought that had jumped into her mind at Southam's remark, and leaped instantly from her lips before she gave it her full attention.
"What if he does not wish to be found?"
The question hung in the air between them, full of nuances and permutations that exploded like fireworks in a glittering discharge every which where.
"Your candor becomes you, Diana; or else it is the feral cunning of a creature driven by fear. Whichever it is, huntress, understand that friends become enemies and lovers become treacherous in the blink of an eye. And each will destroy whomever stands in the middle as calmly as he would swat a fly."
The carriage swerved then, and he lifted the curtain. "Ah, we are almost at Lady Waynflete's. I trust I have made myself clear, Diana, and that you will be forthright with me. Have you seen the man who is your father?"
She lifted her chin defiantly, refusing to be crushed by his threats. He knew nothing about her yet in all their battling back and forth, and he obviously did not take seriously all those times she had gotten the better of him.
So be it.
"I have not."
"We will leave it at that —for tonight."
The carriage drew to a halt and Jainee glanced out the window, expecting to see the elegant columns
and shallow marble steps of Lady Waynflete's house.
"What is this?"
"This is a shield for your reputation, Diana. Pull up your hood; in a moment, you will enter the rear access to Lady Waynflete's home."
"About which you seem to have an abundance of knowledge; this must be the mysterious way in which you invade her home and my bedroom at night."
"Nonsense, Diana. Look, there is Blexter with a lamp to light your way."
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She looked at him uncertainly. He held the power tonight. In some unfathomable way, he had cornered her, and she felt uneasy about what would follow. Still, there was no choice but to continue on, and to submit on her own terms.
And always, always attack, and never leave him feeling as if he had gained a victory.
"I trust you feel you have spent a profitable hour before you go to join Jeremy at—where was it? Lady Something-ton?" she asked, a trifle waspishly. And didn't she feel a jot of envy that he was leaving her to enter the edgy world of brightly lit rooms and fast-paced play? She thought she did; she even felt as if he were abandoning her.
"There is always a Lady Something-ton in town at the beginning of the season who likes to play games, Diana."
"And do all the lords bow to her whims and enjoy playing games with her?"
"I will let you contemplate the thought of that tonight, goddess. It is a sobering thought." He gave her a gentle push, and she stepped out of the carriage and onto the brick pavement. Blexter stood at the door, his lantern aloft, waiting patiently for her to cease her word games with Southam; the moment she lifted a foot to step up to the doorway, the carriage moved.
She whirled but it was too late. The shades were down, the night was young, and only a man could prowl the streets in search of pleasure.
******************
Her temper was not improved by a dressing down from Lady Waynflete.
"Never, never will you go again with Southam if you wish to continue to stay with me. It was the worst impropriety. In the best circumstance a man could takes the most advantage. I cannot think how you could allow yourself to —it was just a matter of entering my coach. Sometimes you must be strong, no matter what a man wants."
"Are you saying," Jainee said coldly, "that my lord could not
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be trusted to mind his manners, even in the face of your obvious disapproval?"
"My dear, you have the mouth of a brass-faced baggage. A man can never be trusted to do anything he ought, and I should think you would have learned that by now. Nicholas in particular is always moved by the urge of the moment. And believe me, my censure from five miles down the road would dissuade him from nothing. Over and above that, it is your reputation which must be zealously guarded. Your background is already questionable, and we have glossed over it as much as possible. But I will tell you now, there will be some who will dismiss you out of hand in spite of all my and Jane Griswold's efforts. So you had better not give those tongues anything more to wag about, Jainee. Do I make myself clear?"
"Indeed you do," Jainee said stiffly, "and I tell you again: I am no green girl, and Southam shall never have the advantage of me. However, I will take to heart your stricture about appearances. I understand how much they matter."
Damn them, damn the eternal obeisance to outward impressions! She stormed up the stairs and into her room and just fell onto the bed in a frenzy of anger—against Lady Waynflete, against Southam, against the circumstances that had brought her to this pass, against the fates who had made her a woman and not a free-wheeling man who could go and come and do as he pleased and take whomever he wanted.
She needed to think, but she was in such a rage. Lady Waynflete had made her feel like a child, and Southam had made her feel panicky and dispensible. She felt out of control, and she needed badly to center herself so that she could make some order out of the chaos she was feeling.
She could not let Southam frighten her with his threats and demands. And she would never let Lady Waynflete chastise her like that, ever again. Even if it meant she must leave the house in Mayfair.
Yes, she could do that: she still had some money of her own. She could return to Brighton, she could work her way forward
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again if need be. She didn't need these lofty aristocrats to house, clothe and feed her. She needed them for exactly what they had provided: the means to move in that strata of society where she might find her father.
And she had paid for the privilege and she considered it a fair exchange, and for Southam to add a condition to the bargain was loathsome and underhanded.
But that die was cast already, from the moment she had told him her story; he had palmed the card, and played it too late in the game for her to counter.
As always, she must play to deceive. There was no difference whether she moved in the most elegant circles in London or the most vulgar gaming house in Brighton.
She must protect her interests, bluff her way through and always attack to put her opponent on the defensive.
The problem of her father and Southam's unwarranted intrusion into her search for him was something else again.
Why?
Or had her father been his true objective after all?
But she could see no reason for that. Her father had abandoned France ten years before. Well no, she didn't really know that. She really knew nothing about him at all.
He would have aged in ten years as well. He would not be the man whom Therese loved, and the kidnapper she remembered.
Why on earth would Southam have any interest in his whereabouts at all? It made no sense, and he already expected that she would have pinpointed the man who was her father since she arrived.
He might even feel she was holding back the information.
She had to deflect his interest immediately until she could find out exactly why he wanted the information
And she knew just how to do it.
"Marie!"
Marie appeared, silent as air. "Mademoiselle? You are home early from the dinner. Everything went well."
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"Very well, although monsieur was not pleased with your dressmaking skill. Neither, for that matter, was madame. Hear me—monsieur seems to have developed an inordinate concern over the whereabouts of my father."
"So?" Marie murmured. "Does he seek the boy?"
"He knows nothing of the boy, and I want to make sure he never finds out about him —or my father. I need your help."
"What can I do? What can mademoiselle do?"
"I have one weapon," Jainee said resolutely. No backing down now; she knew just how to distract my lord pride of the jungle. "This is what you must do for me, Marie. I need four strips of material, that beautiful thick satin, so lustrous to the touch. Blue, I think, and cut and sewn as you would a sash, as long as I am tall, an inch, two inches thick, no more."
"Mademoiselle?" Marie protested. "For what purpose?"
"Perhaps you had best not know. Let us say for the purpose of tantalizing monsieur and turning his mind to other possibilities."
"I see," Marie murmured again. "Yes, infinite possibilities. I will begin at once."
After she had gone, Jainee paced the room restlessly. There was no other way she could take action, and even then, she must wait on Marie's pleasure until she had sewn the strips with which she would titillate the high and mighty lord of lechery.
What must he be doing now, ensconced as he must be at that Lady Something's home, throwing pounds around with the abandon of a profligate prince.
It enraged her just to think of it: all the men she had met this evening were very probably out doing whatever men did when they left their women at home to sit by the fire. Presumably many of them had followed Southam's lead and gone to Lady Something-ton's. Very likely, Lady Something used beautiful women to lure her customers—she would have wanted from the very outset to attract the wealthy eligible customer, the ones with the most money or the longest expectations.
And i
f she provided congenial company, deep and reasonable
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honest play and many other intangible incidentals the jaded patrician patrons required, she would have made her reputation and from then on, she would only have to make a discreet announcement in the right quarters to have all and sundry flocking to her gaming house door.
Everyone except a proper lady who would not know of such things; or a vixen who had been dragooned into becoming one for the sake her mother's misty-eyed dreams.
She wished she were anything but proper now: she could be spinning wheels and cutting cards in a gaming house at this very moment if she had not succumbed to the challenge of matching wits with Southam.
She was meaningless to him, except as a means to get to her father. And barring that, he would pump his money's worth of lust from her and cast her out as soon as she was bored.
Yes, she saw that clearly now, especially with the revelation of this mysterious interest in her father. How blinded she had been by both her schemes to lure him into bringing her to London and all the energy she had expended since trying to keep him out of her bed.
Of course it was not so simple: she had been warned Southam was devious—and deep. Of course he had had other motives, other reasons, but she could not now repine on her stupidity over that.
Nor the fact that he had won the battle of her bed. Now it was perfectly plain she had to keep him enslaved there—at least until she figured out what she had to do.
******************
Lady Desire, Lady Desire—the goddamned name had infiltrated the parlor of Lady Badlington's gaming house as surely as it would insinuate itself into drawing rooms and dinner parties, and even Parliament, for God's sake, Nicholas thought dourly as he sat aimlessly watching a roulette table in play.
It was too good to be buried in the entrance hallway of the Tallinger townhouse. It had come with their guests, whomever
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chose to end the evening in this manner, and it was not from the mouth of Max Annesley either.
