Tempted By Fire

by Thea Devine

  "So you have said, madame, twice now at least. Tell me, why then are you here? After all, it is solely my lord's desire to protect you."

  "And you," Lady Waynflete reminded her trenchantly, as she stood back and admired the effect of the dress, one

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  of perhaps two or three that had been made up in white silk and muslin. "Yes, that will do.”

  "It's very plain," Jainee said, adjusting the neckline.

  "Your maid is not here to redesign it," Lady Waynflete snapped.

  Jainee stared at her through the looking glass, which distorted her figure slightly because Lady Waynflete was standing slightly behind her.

  "Why do you dislike me so?" she asked curiously.

  “I do not dislike you," Lady Waynflete said staunchly. "I disapprove. You are too fast, your clothes are too flashy, your mouth is too brassy. I don't know who you are or where you come from. You have said nothing about your parents or your past, and you have gone out of your way to fascinate every man who crosses your path—and Nicholas is no exception, whether he knows it or not."

  Jainee nodded. "You have the right of it, my lady, and I have been grateful for all your kindness, however reluctantly it was offered."

  "Ah—see! You have done it again. Such plain speaking and yet a body does not know whether you are expressing your gratitude or being churlish under the cover of a compliment. I do not like not knowing where I stand—with anyone."

  "And yet you would support Nicholas' decision," Jainee murmured, refusing to elaborate on what she had meant.

  "Oh yes, my girl. I support it. And why, you may ask. I will tell you. Because it makes no difference to me whether he would marry Charlotte Emerlin or you or do nothing at all. However, his taking you provides me with several advantages: it dislodges you from my house and my responsibility, and it removes you from the circle of available men who seek to pursue you. You may conclude that that circumstance pleases me very well."

  "I have never sought to attract Dunstan Carradine," Jainee said levelly.

  "My dear, you do not need to try," Lady Waynflete said cynically. "But Dunstan is honorable, and has great respect for family. He would never try to pursue you once you are Nicholas'

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  wife. And so, for those reasons, I will lend countenance to this marriage. Now tell me, what do you wish to do with your hair?"

  ******************

  The clock was just striking six, the dawn just rising outside the window when Jainee made her way downstairs, followed by a faintly exasperated Lady Waynflete.

  Nicholas sat with his back to the parlor door as she paused on the threshold, and it was the Reverend Maynard who saw her first, and rubbed his hands together. "Ah, the bride . . ."

  Trenholm, who had been laying out a buffet table, ceased that operation and immediately came to stand behind Nicholas as he rose to his feet and turned and saw Jainee standing in the doorway.

  She was heartbreakingly beautiful in a simple gown of Indian muslin which was banded with ivory satin and swirled out in a little train behind her. The sleeves were long, the shoulder line slightly puffed, and she wore gloves, and a sheer gauze veil pinned to the circlet of pearls she had wound through her hair.

  Her color was high, her eyes unnaturally large and blazing with emotion. In her hands she clutched what looked like a bible.

  Behind her, Lady Waynflete stood like some avenging fairy godmother, her expression resigned. As Jainee moved forward slowly into the room, she followed, and the look in her eyes changed imperceptibly to one of complacency.

  Dunstan was safe from the toils of the temptress: Nicholas had been right—marrying her was the only thing to do.

  Jainee glided to Nicholas’ side, and she and Trenholm took their places slightly behind.

  The minister asked several questions, all relating to Jainee's birth and parentage, and Lady Waynflete was shocked to hear that her father was English and her mother French. But it was probably that the chit had been raised in some godawful hovel somewhere in the country, and of course she had wanted to dispense with such a humble background. They had invented a much better one for her in Brighton.

  The Reverend Maynard began his sonorous reading of the mar-

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  nage service.

  Jainee could hardly keep her eyes straight ahead. She was insane, she could think of a hundred reasons why she must not allow Southam to ride roughshod over her and coerce her into this marriage . . .

  "Do you, Jainee Bowman, enter into this marriage of your own free will and volition?"

  The words stuck in her throat.

  "I do," she whispered.

  "And do you, Nicholas Carradine, Lord Southam, enter into this marriage of your own free will and volition?"

  He did not hesitate. "I do."

  "And do you, Jainee Bowman, take Nicholas Carradine, Lord Southam, to be your true and lawfully wedded husband, to love and honor, to cherish and obey . . ."

  She hardly heard past that dreaded word: "obey." She almost said no.

  "I do."

  "And do you, Nicholas Carradine, Lord Southam, take Jainee Bowman to be your true and lawfully wedded wife, to love and honor, to cherish and protect . . ."

  "I do."

  "And now if there is anyone who knows of any just impediment to this marriage, let him speak now ..."

  Jainee was sure Lucretia Waynflete would say something just at the last moment. But there was only silence, and the Reverend Maynard continued:

  "And so, having exchanged vows and pledged your life and your love to each other, you will now exchange rings as a symbol of the vows you have taken together. Nicholas . . ."

  Amazingly, he produced a ring, and he took her hand which forced her to lift her eyes to his, and he repeated the words after the minister: "With this ring, I thee wed . . ."

  His eyes glittered with unreadable emotion, equal to hers in intensity and reverence for the moment.

  "Jainee . . . ?" the minister asked gently, breaking into her awed sensation at the feeling of this ornate and heavy ring encir-

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  cling her finger.

  She felt a hand on her arm, and she turned to find Lady Waynflete at her elbow, her hand extended, offering a wide-banded gold ring.

  She took it, she took his large hand in her own, and she tremblingly repeated the minister's words: "With this ring . . ."

  "And now," Reverend Maynard beamed, "it is my pleasure to pronounce you husband and wife. Congratulations, my dear," he added, reaching for her hand and Nicholas' simultaneously, and joining them.

  Husband ... the word sat uneasily in her mind. . . . wife. What was a wife? She did not know the first thing about "doing" a wife.

  "My lord," she murmured, her eyes downcast and focused on the sight of her hand swallowed up in Nicholas'. And the ring: the thick gleaming gold band that seemed to rightfully fit Nicholas’ finger. How? Whose?

  What had she done?

  Nicholas relinquished her hand to take two glasses from the tray offered by Trenholm, who, after his part as signatory witness, began to serve the celebratory breakfast.

  Her own ring looked strange too as she curled her fingers around the goblet and took a sip of champagne. Whose ring? Weighted on her finger, it was, like a statement of intent.

  She felt a tremor of apprehension because she could not picture what her life was going to be like past this next fifteen minutes. She was Nicholas Carradine's wife.

  She was Lady Southam . . .

  "I must be going," Lady Waynflete said abruptly, breaking away from her conversation with Reverend Maynard. "Congratulations, Miss Bowman. You've done excellently well for yourself. I trust you will rise to the occasion. I will send Marie with your belongings before the morning is out. Nicholas, my dear, I cannot imagine what your mother would think of this situation. No doubt she would find some saving grace. Good afternoon, Reverend."

  Jainee watched her depart with mixed emotions. She

 
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  was not an enemy now: she was a conspirator in a face-saving marriage about which only four people knew the truth.

  ******************

  It had just gone seven o'clock when Southam's carriage drew up before Lady Waynflete's house.

  She still was in a state of bemusement as she inserted the key into the door and swung it open. It was inconceivable that Nicholas had finally been caught in the parson's mouse trap, and by that cunning adventuress. Oh, she should have taken Miss Bowman's facetious remark for true: for look at where it had got her—right in the arms of one of the wealthiest and most eligible and least gullible men in all of London.

  The girl was a wonder, she thought helplessly, and she could not but think that somehow she had engineered the situation to force Nicholas into taking action.

  Was she really that clever?

  She faced that question as Blexter came forward out of curiosity and met her in the hall. "Never mind, Blexter—let us say I took a morning constitutional."

  Better than nothing, she thought dolefully, when she had never exerted herself in the least in all her life.

  And then Marie: "Madame, madame, mademoiselle has not returned to her room; her bed has not been slept in. Where can she be, what shall I do?"

  And Lady Waynflete thought how ironic it was that Miss Bowman's maid would be the first to hear the news before anyone of the ton.

  "Rest easy, Marie. Nothing has happened. Miss Bowman and Lord Southam eloped tonight. She is at his townhouse and you will have the goodness to pack her clothes and be ready to proceed there before the clock strikes noon."

  Marie's mouth fell open. "Dieu," she breathed, and clapped her hand to her lips.

  She recovered in an instant. "Bien, madame, I will be ready."

  No questions, pure acceptance, Lady Waynflete noted. Perhaps it was so with maids and footmen; they were so used to obedi-

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  ence.

  So she did not notice that Marie did not head directly upstairs to begin packing as she made her weary way into the parlor where Blexter was in the midst of brewing tea and a footman was laying a fresh fire.

  Nobody saw Marie as she edged down the long basement hail-way and scuttled out to the stables behind the house.

  And she hid in one of the stalls, waiting, waiting. In this she was taking a chance: there were any number of stable boys in and around the carriage house in the morning. But she was waiting for a particular one, in the hope that he had not been tapped to exercise Mr. Jeremy's stock this day.

  How much luck, how much? That mademoiselle had run off with Monsieur and successfully brought him to point was a stroke of sheer genius on her part—all unknowing, of course. And now it was merely a matter of notifying Robert, a certain stable boy who had been clever enough to get himself hired so that he could be directly on the scene when she needed to transmit her messages.

  It took a while, but the luck held. Robert was the first of the pack into the stable, leading one of the carriage horses.

  "Robert," she whispered over the clatter of the horse's hooves. "Ro-bert. . ."

  He heard her then, and he searched the stalls until he found her crouching behind one of the partitions. She pulled him down beside her and put her finger to her lips.

  "Only listen," she said in French, her voice barely above a breath, "la Beaumont has married Monsieur and I leave for Berkeley Square tonight. Nothing, nothing could be better. Listen, listen: she has found her father. She now has the protection of Southam's name. She will find the boy and all shall go as planned. Tell them that all is proceeding better than planned. We will find the boy now, with Southam's help, and I promise—I swear-l will kill him. Tell Murat . . . tell her that . . ."

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  Chapter Nineteen

  The news exploded all over London like fireworks going off in forty different directions.

  Southam married! The luscious Lady Desire out of circulation!

  The dog—

  Such secrets!

  From one house to the next, one servant to another, friend to friend, making early morning calls instead of early afternoon, the news spread and magnified and expanded into stories of such deception and derring-do that even had anyone known of the fiasco at Southam's home the evening before, that story would have gotten lost in all the fairy tales.

  The news put Gertrude Emerlin in a rage, and sent Charlotte into her room in a fit of fury that could only be vented by smashing things.

  It made Annesley fall off his chair laughing at the sheer gall of Nicholas to have countervented gossip in such a daring way.

  Coxe didn't remember any of it, and Dunstan was the first to call on the newly wed couple.

  "Uncle," Nicholas greeted him warmly. "Come join us at breakfast with the Reverend Maynard, who was kind enough to call."

  He ushered Dunstan into the dining room where Jainee sat side by side with the Reverend Maynard, dressed in gown of Indian muslin which was tied around her body with a long lustrous stream of satin material.

  Damn him, Nicholas has thought of everything, Dunstan thought, holding out his hand to Jainee. His daughter, his niece by marriage.

  She read his murderous displeasure in his eyes. Her head lifted,

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  her eyes sparkled dangerously. "Uncle? Do join us."

  He could do nothing else and he ungraciously settled himself in a chair opposite the minister. "I suppose it could be said that you took my advice," he commented acrimoniously.

  "I was sure you would wish me happy,” Nicholas said imperturbably. "Have some coffee—or some eggs and smoked tongue."

  Dunstan shot him a suspicious glance. “I believe I will."

  Nicholas smiled. The minister said, "I must be going," and Nicholas rose to see him out.

  Jainee's food suddenly stuck in her throat.

  "Well my dear, aren't you the one," Dunstan said, as he neatly cut his meat into small manageable pieces. "How did you convince him? Or did you think that your marriage would remove the threat of violence against you? Oh no, my girl. Nicholas could be a widower in a fortnight, and it wouht be better for me if he were. He cannot protect you if you choose to be foolhardy. Perhaps you have made the most short-sighted choice of all. Ah, Nicholas, do you know? I really am not hungry; I only came to wish you well, and to say that we must talk, and soon."

  "As you wish."

  "Dinner then?"

  "Name the day."

  "I will send round a note after I consult my calendar. Tell me, will the new Lady Southam feel slighted if it is just we two alone?"

  Nicholas turned to her. "Will she?”

  Jainee smiled, that smile that made his hackles rise and, he suspected, Dunstan's. "Nothing you could do would upset me— uncle," she said pointedly. "We have all seen a wonderful example of what happens when men get together and dine alone. Do as you will. I can certainly keep myself occupied."

  Neither of them liked that statement of mischievous intent.

  Jainee smiled. "Thank you for coming, uncle."

  "Welcome to the family, Jainee," he answered in kind.

  Nicholas saw him out and when he returned, he found Jainee pacing the room.

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  "This will not work," she said agitatedly. "It just will not work."

  "The thing is done," Nicholas said calmly. "Why do you not like Dunstan?"

  How perceptive of him, she thought, unable to calm herself or stay still. "I like him well enough," she said diffidently. "Do you?"

  He ignored that. "The word has gotten around. You may thank me for thinking of resurrecting last night's dress so that callers did not find you in your wedding dress."

  "I am ever so grateful."

  "And you must write a note to Lady Waynflete to express your appreciation of the loan of her dear deceased husband's ring so that we could complete the ceremony. Dunstan did not need to know that, and neither did the minister."

  "Of course, I will do that," she murmured, much chastened. The
y had not had a moment to talk since the ceremony. Trenholm had laid out the breakfast immediately, Southam had sent her upstairs to change and the Reverend had stayed to celebrate afterwards.

  She fingered her ring. "This is a beautiful ring."

  "It was my mother's."

  Of course, she should have guessed, but how could she have guessed? And his tone, when he mentioned his mother—so reverential, so . . . sad.

  "I thank you for it," she said gently, and she was stunned to see a flash of pain in his eyes.

  It was gone in the blink of an eye. "Despite what Lucretia thinks, and she was my mother's great good friend, I believe my mother would have liked you very well," Nicholas said, "but—” he added as the doorbell pealed urgently, "she would have hated this circus. Ah, Jeremy—what's to do?"

  "Are you out of your mind?" Jeremy demanded, storming into the room ahead of Trenholm, and totally ignoring Jainee's presence. "Are you crazy? Were you drunk? Honest to God, Nicholas—Miss Bowman?"

  "Ah, yes —Miss Bowman. Permit me, Jeremy—may I make you known to my wife, Lady Southam?"

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  "Damn —I beg your pardon . . ." Jeremy muttered with ill grace. "My apologies, Miss Bowman. Nick—" he added meaningfully.

  "You can speak frankly, Jeremy; I don't think you have failed to make your feelings known to my wife before this."

  "Yes, well-"

  "Have some breakfast, Jeremy; it will improve your humor."

  "The only thing that will improve my humor is if you tell me straight out this thing is all a hum."

  "Have some coffee, Jeremy," Nicholas said, seating himself and pouring a cup that he did not want.

  "Damn, Nick—it's all been a plot, a scheme. She has been after you, your money, and she put herself in a place where she could get it. I never in my life thought you would be gulled by a piece of Haymarket ware, especially when you could snap your fingers and have any eligible heiress in England."

  "The coffee is quite tolerable," Nicholas said, sipping his with remarkable sang-froid during this heated harangue and forbearing to look at Jainee's expression. But Jeremy had raked her over the coals the moment she set foot in Lucretia's house, so none of this would surprise her. And perhaps it was best she know just where she stood among his intimates because he was damned sure he did not know where she stood within his life. "And the ham," he added, proffering a dish.