by Thea Devine
"Of course, the astonishing part to me is that you have lasted this long. I fully expected Nicholas to be weary of the novelty of you before you even arrived in London. That does say something for your fascination, my dear, and it gave me the first inkling of how I might claim payment on your debt to me."
She held up her hand as Jainee started to protest. "No, no — don't read me some fairy tale about Lucretia Waynflete, please. I can read between the lines and I know very well how things stand. And so this is what you will do for me: you will ruin Southam."
The bold-faced outrageousness of that statement caught Jainee by surprise. But not for long. Already she felt an encroaching fury sweeping through her very vitals. How dared she! This woman, this friend for whom she had felt some affection!
Attack, attack—her mind geared into action almost instantly, defending her against an unspoken threat.
"I will not listen to this," she said with some heat, setting aside her cup, and rising as if to go.
"But of course you will, Jainee dear. You have no choice; you are walking tender ground here, and no one knows it better than I. You stand to lose everything if I bruit it about where you came from and how exactly you got here and how 278
deeply Southam has had a hand in it—so to speak."
"You will look like a fool, and I will lose nothing."
"Do not wager on that assumption, Miss high-and-mighty Beaumont. Consider—Lord Ottershaw is a very particular friend of mine. Now were this to be the topic of discussion among the gentlemen of his set, it would only add to my luster as a desirable companion, and more men and more would want to follow his lead. However, the same would not be true if word got around about your liaison with Southam. No indeed, and in fact, the thing only has to be given life to make any one of your new-found friends doubt you.
"You could present a court-case of evidence that the inference was not true, and still you would be tainted. Your invitations would diminish, Lady Waynflete would politely disassociate herself from you, Southam would drop you faster than a winning card at vingt-et-un. Of course, as long as you were impeccably sponsored with the right credentials and nicely chaperoned, it wouldn't matter what the bucks called you behind your back: that would be considered delightful speculation as opposed to grim reality.
"So you see, I could probably pull you deeper down into the dregs than ever Southam could—or would. Gentlemen tend to buy off their mistakes; women destroy them.
"Think hard on it, my dear. You need never see me again. You have only to act, to seize the moment to somehow publicly humiliate Southam. It could take any form—from leading him into bankruptcy, to accusing him of forcing you into doing unspeakable acts . . . / do not care so long as you hang his laundry out to dry in public.
"Do you not, and I will see that you are washed down and thrown away with the bath water."
"I see," Jainee said through dry lips. "And how much time do you give me to accomplish this magic act?"
"Oh ... it is April now—I should think that by the end of May you would have sufficient time. The season will be in full swing by then, and it is the last time and place you would want to hear your private affairs made public. It is the last gasp of the 279
season, my dear, positively fraught with every kind of social event and nuance possible. A perfect place to unleash the fireworks of a scandal, believe me.
"I promise, we need never meet again. From time to time, I will send you a little message to let you know I am thinking of you, and waiting in the shadows for that one divine moment of revenge.
"And when you accomplish it, my dear, you shall have a just reward. No good deed goes unrewarded in my world. I shall furnish you with the means to escape Southam's retribution."
"You are crazy," Jainee snapped.
"No, no, Jainee, only practical, the same as you. We are sisters under the skin; it is why you chose me as your mentor and tutor. And it is why I chose you. Think on it, my dean When you are ready to acquiesce, I will know."
She rose up and pulled the bell-rope, and her servant entered. She snapped her fingers and a moment later, the servant returned with Jainee's cape.
Jainee wrapped it around herself with nerveless fingers; she couldn't find a single word to say to Edythe Winslowe's fantastical plan. Perhaps no words were needed: perhaps the thing would go away. But then she looked into Edythe's cold clear eyes, and she thought not.
Edythe walked her to the door. "Your maid has been sent round to the carriage, and it should be at the door just now."
And indeed, Hawkins was waiting, and ready to assist her into the coach. When she was seated, Edythe peered in through the door.
"Goodbye, my dear; I'm so glad I saw you in the park today."
And what if she hadn't, Jainee wondered as the carriage lurched forward. What if she had never ventured near that bedeviled park, had never seen Edythe Winslowe anywhere socially, would Edythe have found her anyway and issued her inconceivable threats and demands?
It almost seemed like some kind of conspiracy—that for the first time since she had come to London, Lady Waynflete ex- 280
pressly asked her to leave the house, and then this had happened.
But that was too farfetched. The correct assumption had to be that Edythe Winslowe had been watching and waiting and planning, consumed with jealousy that Jainee Beaumont had been successful where she had not.
And she was such a puny instrument of revenge, walking the fine thin line between Southam's will and Lady Wayneflete's fear of social ostracism.
She had no room to maneuver, she who was at Southam's mercy every which way. it really would be easier just to run away.
In the ensuing journey back to Lady Waynflete's townhouse, she thought of two dozen things she ought to have said to Edythe Winslowe, and the one she had not: no.
Two heart-stopping surprises in the space of two days were enough, she decided as the carriage drew to a halt. She would not even think about Edythe Winslowe's intolerable blackmail. All she could do was hope that Dunstan Carradine had departed and left Lady Waynflete in reasonably good spirits.
Distracted by her thoughts, she stepped from the carriage; she heard a thrashing in the bushes and the harsh yowl of a cat confined against its will. Simultaneously, she heard Marie shriek behind her: "A mouse! A mouse!" and she turned her head sharply as something scurried across her line of vision. Marie cried out again: "A cat —watch out for the cat!" and she swung her body around abruptly as something flashed out of the bushes after the mouse, and her foot stepped down, buckled under and her body toppled forward.
Her arms flailed out, reaching for something to hold onto, and there was nothing. She felt as if everything were turning upside down, and then she fell heavily on the ground, her head snapping backward to strike the ice cold marble of the lower step.
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"Well, was it my fault?" Lady Waynflete demanded petulantly
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as the doctor rinsed out another warm cloth and laid it against Jainee's forehead.
"It was not your fault," Jeremy said reassuringly, tugging on her arm to lead her away. "I sent for Nick. The doctor is competent, and you had better rein in your feelings of responsibility for something that was an accident, pure and simple, otherwise someone will begin to think there was something more to it."
"He was a present from Dunstan," Lady Waynflete said unhappily. "He was so repentant that he had not called for months; he wanted to make it up to me. So original. A companion for me, he said. Another man might have offered diamonds, but not Dunstan."
"Dunstan Carradine isn't in a fair way to affording the size diamonds you covet, mother," Jeremy said tartly. "Now come, Blexter has laid out tea in the parlor. The little monster is nowhere to be found, by the way. It's as if it disappeared into thin air, out and gone. But the doctor says Miss Bowman will recover and be right as a trivet within a couple of hours. You have no need to dress yourself with guilt."
"I wish I had never t
aken the chit in," Lady Waynflete said mournfully. "Dunstan truly only wanted to see her. The animal, that messy shedding cat, was only an excuse. And to what purpose? She was out, and so now he comes to dinner tonight. You must stay. So, for that matter, must Nick when he gets here. I don't think Miss Bowman will be in any condition to dine with us. But what if she is? What if she is?"
"Then she shall," Jeremy said practically, handing his mother her cup of tea which he had expertly prepared. "Rest easy, mother, it cannot be quite as critical as it sounds."
Lady Waynflete sniffed. "It can and it is. If she continues attending social functions with me, / shall be persona non grata because all the mothers will resent her beauty and the way men just buzz around her. Thank God she is not on the marriage mart, because I swear I would disown her before I would take her to the sanctum. No, Jeremy, this little affair of Nicholas' must end. I told him so the other day, and he sloughed it right off. But Dunstan hadn't come back then. Or actually, he had,
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only several hours after I told Nick ... it doesn't matter. He's taken by her beauty and there is nothing I can do. She will receive diamonds, I would wager a hundred pounds on it. And I am left to explain to Dunstan how his lovely gift of hair and claws disappeared."
"I never did like the scheme to begin with," Jeremy said, "but we are left to clean up the aftermath, in spite of Nick's intentions—whatever they were. It positively destroys my faith in him."
"He was such a sad and lonely child," Lady Waynflete said. "I always think of that when I put myself on the line for him. But no more, no more."
They sipped in silence for a while, and at length, Blexter appeared, looking most serious. He bowed to Lady Waynflete and began, "I beg to report madame that we instituted a wide-ranging search for the creature and it cannot be found. All possible avenues were explored with no results. It would appear the creature wanted to disappear."
"Thank you, Blexter." He withdrew and Lady Waynflete turned to Jeremy. "Do you see? Not even Dunstan's gift wishes to find a permanent place with me."
"You are making much more of this than you need," Jeremy said blandly. "And now—here is Doctor Goodale. What news, sir?"
"The girl is awake and seems to be aware of herself and her surroundings," the doctor said briskly. "She took a heavy blow to her skull when she fell; there will be a lump, but she does not seem disoriented. Actually, she seems quite angry."
"Well, of course," Lady Waynflete said. "She will have to spend several days at rest, no doubt, and won't be able to go around exuding that beastly whatever she has to attract Dunstan. / would be angry too."
"Well, you are right on that charge, Madame. She must remain in bed for the succeeding several days, and perhaps take things a little slower thereafter, so we may be sure that neither her senses nor her equilibrium have been affected."
"Thank you, Doctor," Jeremy said quickly, before his mother
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could put in another of her rash condemnations of Jainee. "What more must we do?"
"Watch for fever, dizziness. Let her eat—lightly—if she is hungry. Camomile tea for thirst. Barley water for fever. Some laudanum if she cannot sleep. But she appears strong-willed to me. The bump will recede in a day or two with continued application of a compress. If she changes for the worst, call me immediately."
"She won't," Lady Waynflete muttered. And then she remembered her manners. "Thank you, Doctor. And thank you for coming so quickly."
"No trouble, Madame."
Jeremy saw him to the door and as he drove away in his gig, Nicholas' carriage drew up and he was out the door, sweeping Jeremy into the house with barely a how do you do.
"What happened?"
"Ah, Nick, settle down; there is nothing critical here. Dunstan visited this morning and brought mother a fool cat that got out and scared Miss Bowman as she was debarking from a carriage and she took a fall. She's fine and feisty and the doctor does not believe she will stay in bed above five minutes, if we would let her."
Some of the tension drained out of him. "Yes, well~I must see to my investment, mustn't I?"
"Is that what she is?" Jeremy murmured. "Well, come; she is awake and ready to take on all comers."
******************
She was awake, she wasn't sure she was alive, and she was drowning in a burning wetness which Marie kept assiduously applying for her forehead.
"Ah, Monsieur . . ." Marie breathed as Southam appeared in the doorway.
Jainee groaned. "Tell him to go away."
"Monsieur Waynflete accompanies him. I can tell him nothing," Marie whispered, and moved away from the bed as Nicholas came forward into the room.
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And nothing would have stopped him anyway, she thought. His face looked as black as the night, and Jeremy Waynflete had already tactlessly withdrawn.
"Well, Diana, don't you look wan and fragile and delicious lying in bed. What kind of stunt was this? And who were you expecting to keep vigil by your bedside?"
She looked up at him balefully. "Your manner is most pleasing, my lord; it positively puts me on the road to recovery."
"Let us hope so before all your agitating admirers storm the doors and demand to be allowed to spoon feed you your medicine and their verbal swill."
"And may I say how your visit has refreshed me?" Jainee murmured, her voice dripping with irony. At that, perhaps it had: she felt tinglingly alive and combative again, ready to battle words with him or anything else he might choose as a weapon.
"What happened?"
"I fell," she said baldly.
"You are not clumsy."
"No. Something shot out of the bushes and distracted me just as I stepped from the carriage. It could have happened to you, did you arrive before me, my lord. There is nothing more to the story."
"Except that all will now express their intense desire to succor you in your hour of need; my mind reels with the possibilities."
"Your mind is deranged," Jainee said flatly, "and you are giving me a headache." She thought that sounded good, but she was sure she did not look as if she had a headache or even as if she had had an accident. She looked as if she were cozily abed, awaiting a lover, so of course his rage was out of all proportion with the incident.
"I will give you hell if my Uncle Dunstan walks through that door," Nicholas said darkly, and Dunstan's voice immediately rejoined: "Isn't that a little drastic, my boy?"
Nicholas turned and Dunstan entered the room with Lady Waynflete at his heels.
"Well, you can see for yourself, Dunstan, she is right as rain, no lingering after effects except for that awful rag on her head.
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Marie will have her up and about in no time.”
"Truly?" Dunstan asked, reaching for Jainee's reluctant hand.
"I am fine," she said tightly.
It was only a warning, his eyes said; his back was to Nicholas and Lady Waynflete — no one could see but her. Heed me, "I am pleased to hear it," he said, patting her hand. "Are you well enough to join us for dinner?" / want you where I can see you, his expression told her.
"I think not," she said, pulling at her hand.
"The doctor prescribed rest," Lady Waynflete put in. "Really, she ought to have some tea —I have ordered it for her—and a good long rest. Come, Dunstan, there really is nothing more we can do here . . ."
"Of course, Lucretia, you are right," he said lightly. "Perhaps I might call tomorrow, Miss Bowman, to see how you get on?"
"Yes, yes," Lady Waynflete said impatiently, "of course you can. Now come, Dunstan; Miss Bowman should not be forced to make conversation after such a potentially dangerous accident."
"As always, Lucretia, I bow to you. Nicholas . . . ?"
"Uncle."
It was like a dance. Step by step, they circled around each other—and her—trying not to appear obvious, each trying to gain some amorphous upper hand. She felt dizzy watching it; dealing with them sapped her strength.
By the
time they left her alone, she was shaking with the enormity of her father's tacit confession.
It was only a warning . . .
A little diversion to send her tumbling to the ground, nearby a pristine marble step . . . that if she had twisted and fallen one way or another could have been spattered with her blood.
Her father had meant to kill her.
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Chapter Sixteen
Dunstan's good humor was not at all overset by the fact that the feline had run away. "These things happen, Lucretia," he said temporizingly over dinner. "I would never assume you deliberately disposed of a gift that I gave you."
"Well, of course not," Lady Waynflete said indignantly, well pleased to be surrounded by three elegant gentlemen, one of whom was her heart's desire, and to have the new bane of her existence safely in bed a story and a half above her.
"The girl is astonishingly beautiful," Dunstan said, directing his comment to Nicholas now. "And probably up to no good. I'm really surprised at your foisting her off on poor Lucretia, Nick. You haven't a clue about her background or her motivation. It is not like you to be so imprudent. In fact, it is damned unlike you."
Nicholas smiled grimly. "Whatever it is, she is here, and Lucretia has been good-hearted, if not patient, about it. The season will be over soon, and Miss Bowman will recede into distant memory. I daresay everyone will have forgotten her by the beginning of July."
"I would like to forget her now," Lady Waynflete said meaningfully, as the servants began to serve the soup course.
"Lucretia always knows what is important," Dunstan said.
And she was also expert at diverting the conversation, Nicholas thought, covertly watching his uncle. For the life
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of him, he could see no sign that Dunstan was smitten with the goddess, but Dunstan was as unfathomable as himself when it came to revealing emotion.
But neither had he mentioned their dinner of a month before when he had first revealed the existence of Miss Bowman and ill-conceived suspicions that Dunstan had summarily dismissed.
