by Mia Marlowe
“Gabriel, if you’re planning to run off with her, I can only wonder at your sanity,” Catherine said. “You can’t run from home again. You’ll be throwing away everything. You can’t really tell me this chatelaine, this nobody means so much to you.”
He turned and stomped to the door. “I’m no longer a boy who fears his own rage. I’m a man who’s not afraid to unleash it, if necessary. And I’m not running away. I’m running toward the only home I’ll ever know. If someone tries to get between me and Jacquelyn, God have mercy on them.” He stopped and leveled a glare at her. “For I won’t.”
Chapter 29
“Why, this is utterly ridiculous!” Isabella scowled down at the scandal sheet beside her plate of buttered eggs and toast.
“What is?” Jacquelyn asked from her place at the far end of the long dining table. Ordinarily gentle folk ate the first meal of the day in a small breakfast room instead of a larger dining room, but Isabella was never one to settle for ordinary. Since her mother rarely rose before noon, purists might insist the meal was nearly luncheon in any case.
“This theatre critic is being purposely thick.” Isabella pushed the sheet aside and peeled an orange slice, carefully removing all traces of the white pulp. “Anyone with eyes knows the real play at the theatre last night was going on in the Duke of Kent’s private box when his wife came at intermission and surprised him with his mistress.”
“How awful for her,” Jacquelyn said as she chased a fig around her plate with her spoon. The elegant sideboard behind her fairly groaned under the weight of choices Nanette set out to tempt Jacquelyn’s fickle appetite. Food still held little fascination for her. “And yet it amuses you. Don’t you care about the wife’s pain?”
“Her Grace felt no pain, I assure you. She had brought her exceedingly handsome ‘cousin’ from York to the theatre with her.” Isabella laid a finger aside of her nose and gave a sly wink.
Jacquelyn frowned in puzzlement.
“The duchess has no familial relations from that region of which I’m aware. The young man was her light-o-love, you see. Oh, you should have been there, dearest, but then we’d have had to share my opera glasses and I fear I wouldn’t have relinquished them for worlds. The duke turned the most charming shade of purple,” Isabella said with a laugh. “And now he’s known before the world for what he is.”
“An adulterous husband with a choleric temper?”
“Worse. A hypocrite,” Isabella said. “Society will wink at a gentleman’s indiscretions, even secretly cheer them, but it will not abide a fraud. If he insists on flaunting his mistress he ought not to be surprised when his wife rubs his nose in the fact that she’s cuckolded him. I’m afraid His Grace’s theatrics overshadowed the poor players on the stage by several leagues.”
Isabella sipped her tea. “I wonder if that was precisely the reaction the duchess was hoping for. She must have known he’d be there. Oh, brava!” Isabella clapped her hands together soundlessly. “Do you suppose she might have arranged the confrontation on purpose?”
“Why on earth would she do that?”
“To put the cheeky bastard on notice, I imagine,” Isabella said, lifting her cup in a mock toast. “I give you the Duchess of Kent. Well played, madam.”
“You speak as if marriage were some sort of chess match.”
“Aptly put, dearest. I suspect matters of the heart always are a game on some levels. Heaven knows, a mistress must use strategy when dealing with her lover. But it’s a rare wife who shows such initiative. I suspect the Duke’s mistress will be in want of a patron very shortly,” Isabella predicted. “Who knows? He might actually love his wife and not have realized it until that moment.”
Jacquelyn shook her head. She’d never understand her mother’s way of thinking if she lived to be a hundred. She and Gabriel had caused each other enough pain without resorting to any such skullduggery. To manufacture an excuse to hurt each other seemed the antithesis of love.
Isabella sighed. “Actually, my pity goes to the mistress.”
“There’s a surprise,” Jacquelyn muttered to the cooling porridge she couldn’t bring herself to try.
“Well, I hope the girl was sensible enough to arrange for a pension in her contract at least,” Isabella said.
“A pension?”
“Of course, lovie. A woman of pleasure must look to her own future, for no one else will see to it for her,” Isabella explained. She waved a hand around the sumptuously appointed dining room, glittering with silver and fine glassware. “As you can see, I did. When one is young and beautiful, it’s easy to be distracted by romance and passion. However, as the years pass, I’m more comforted by jewels and banknotes than an admirer’s love sonnets in praise of my charms. Besides, they are invariably poorly written and at this stage in my career,” her shoulders bunched in a self-deprecating shrug, “patently false.”
Despite her age, which she worked tirelessly to keep at bay, Isabella was still much in demand. She accompanied gentlemen to soirees and sporting occasions, acting not only as an ornament to her partner’s arm, but also as a sparkling wit to draw others to her companion. Isabella counted many famous artists and philosophers both in London and on the Continent as her intimate friends. An invitation to one of Isabella Wren’s dinner parties was cause for rejoicing among the city’s demimonde.
“I do wish you’d come with me this evening. The opera is a new one and is said to utterly charming,” Isabella coaxed. “An Italian castrati is singing. Abominable practice, of course, but what a sublime sound. Have you ever heard one?”
Jacquelyn shook her head, but she knew a castrati was a neutered male. She mentally shuddered at the mutilation involved in producing those musical wonders.
“Imagine the purity and sweetness of a boy soprano and the strength of a man’s chest and breath capacity. Not much of interest lower down, bien sur, but the music makes up for other deficiencies, I’m told. Do say you’ll come. We have a lovely box reserved.”
“I’m sorry, mother. I’m not exactly feeling up to socializing.”
“Whyever not? Your belly is still flatter than my own. No one would guess that you’re bearing, child. Why not enjoy yourself for once?”
“Ah!” Jacquelyn cast her a wry smile. “I believe enjoying myself is what got me into this predicament.”
“No, never say that. If you loved the man, do not regret the joy you gave each other.” Isabella fluttered down the length of the table, teacup in hand. She settled beside Jacquelyn and leaned toward her confidingly. “Did you love him?”
More than worlds, Jacquelyn thought, but didn’t dare say. To admit it aloud would be to bare her heart and its only safety lay in staying as hidden as the treasure resting beneath Dragon Caern. She turned the question back on her mother. “Did you love all your men?”
“All your men,” Isabella mimicked. “Listen to you. Anyone would think I was two penny prostitute who turned tricks in the alley. I have been the soul of discernment. I’ll have you know, my dear, that while I’ve had a coterie of admirers, the number of men I’ve actually taken to my bed over the years may be counted on one hand.”
Jacquelyn digested this astounding fact.
“But the answer to your question is yes,” Isabella said, her voice wistful. “In my own way, I loved them all.”
Isabella finished her tea in silence, the only sound the soft clink of the bone china cup settling into its gilt-edged saucer.
“My dear, you know you are welcome to live with me for as long as you wish,” she finally said. “However, with the odd hours I keep, my mode of life is hardly conducive to child rearing.”
“Is that why you abandoned me to Lundgrim’s Academy for Young Ladies of Good Family?” Jacquelyn asked. “I always imagined you were simply too busy for me.”
“Oh, lovie, is that what you thought?” Isabella placed a hand on Jacquelyn’s forearm. “If only you knew how often I wanted you here. But however much I enjoy my life, there are certain . . . disad
vantages. I wanted you to be a lady, to make a brilliant match someday. That’s why I insisted you be educated.”
“You’re too a smart woman to believe in fairy tales,” Jacquelyn said. “You must have known without proper familial connections there would be no grand marriage for me. All I might hope for was a position as a governess. And it seems I’ve muffed that in grand fashion.”
Jacquelyn had been gone from Dragons Caern a little more than a fortnight, but she still was unsure what she was going to do. She’d had no plan beyond reaching her mother’s home when she rode off. Now a sense of lethargy stole over her, robbing her of the will to act. She knew she had some decisions to make, but she resisted the attempt. After all, her choices were responsible for her present. How could she trust herself to do any better for her future? Especially now that she had another little life to consider as well.
“Actually, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about your future and this seems the perfect opportunity,” Isabella said as if she’d read Jacquelyn’s mind. “You’re pretty enough to do well as a top-tier courtesan. Your French is excellent and when you put your mind to it, you can be charming. I’m assuming you are fairly well acquainted with various methods of pleasuring a man.”
“Your letters were most explicit on those points, Mother,” she said.
“A mother must share what she knows,” Isabella said. “However, experience is always the best teacher.”
“And the hardest,” Jacquelyn said.
“Admittedly,” Isabella agreed. “After the child is born, you will have limited options before you. With my connections, I should be able to launch you into demirep society as my protégé.”
Horror must have shown on Jacquelyn’s face.
“Not to your taste? Well, gay society, late hours and hedonistic pleasure aren’t for everyone, but I want you to consider your choices,” her mother said without rancor. “Still your aristocratic education will not go to waste. If you’re prepared to wed quickly—quickly enough that society will allow itself to believe your babe premature, there may yet be a way for you to make a grand match. How would you fancy being a countess?”
“From courtesan to countess?” Jacquelyn swallowed hard. “That’s quite a leap.”
“Not as far as you might think,” Isabella said.
Jacquelyn choked out a laugh. “Mother, are you sure that’s just tea you’ve been sipping? I’m bearing another man’s child. I’d be surprised if a ditch digger would wed me in this state.”
“And yet, my dear friend Lord Geoffrey Haversham, heir to the Earl of Wexford, is prepared to do just that,” Isabella said.
“How could you discuss my situation with a stranger?” Jacquelyn demanded indignantly.
“Geoffrey is no stranger. I count him one of my closest companions. He is the soul of discretion and I trust him implicitly,” Isabella explained. “He and I have been keeping company for over a year now. The man is charming, witty and wealthy enough in his own right for it not to matter that you are without either pedigree or substantial dowry.”
“Mother, I—”
“In fact, I didn’t have to ask. He offered to wed you,” Isabella went on. “Geoffrey assured me he will welcome and cherish your child as if it were his own. You will both want for nothing. None will ever have cause to doubt that Geoff is the sire by any action or word of his.”
“Mother, you’re making no sense,” Jacquelyn said, the bare thought of wedding some stranger making her stomach curdle. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“What I’m about to tell you is in the strictest of confidence, you understand.” The tip of Isabella’s tongue slipped between her lips for a moment as she gnawed it thoughtfully. “Because Geoffrey . . . well, there’s no way to state the facts less baldly and still be clear. You see, Geoffrey likes men.”
Jacquelyn blinked. Her sensual education, it seemed, was not as complete as she thought.
“You’d never guess it to look at him—an avid sportsman, tall, attractive, sings like a bird and dances like an angel. He’s the perfect gallant. Bless his heart, Geoffrey’s been hard put to keep it secret, but he manages,” Isabella said. “Says his father would die of apoplexy if he ever found out, so Geoff’s been very circumspect. Never visited a molly house in his life and swears he never will. In fact, he’s only had one lover—his Italian valet, you see. He’s been with him for years. I believe they quite dote upon one another in absolute secrecy, you understand. But as a future earl, Geoffrey desperately needs a wife and—”
“And I need a husband to give my child a name,” Jacquelyn finished for her, subconsciously resting one hand on her abdomen.
“Actually, this could work to both your advantages,” Isabella said. “Geoffrey is enlightened enough to realize that you have needs which he’s unable to meet. He said he wouldn’t even care if you took a lover—discreetly, of course—and bore other children which he would happily acknowledge, because a man can never have too many heirs.”
Jacquelyn covered her face with both hands.
“He’d be good to you. Generous and grateful, exceedingly useful qualities in a husband,” Isabella urged. “Think of the child.”
A life of privilege. Wealth. The blessings of an education. An earldom if her child should turn out to be a boy. Cosseted protection and a prominent match, if a girl. As the offspring of an earl, Jacquelyn and Gabriel’s child would be welcome at court. And Jacquelyn would finally be what she’d longed to be all her life.
A lady.
And a total bald-faced lie. Nothing in the life her mother tempted her with would be real.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Don’t decide now,” Isabella said. “Come with me to the opera tonight and meet him. Honestly, the man could charm the birds from the sky.”
“Mother, I have to go.” Jacquelyn pushed back from the table and stood.
“Where?”
“To answer an advertisement. There’s a modiste on Close Street who’s looking for an assistant.”
“Doing what?”
“Needlework—mending, alterations, that sort of thing. I’m no tailor, but perhaps with training—”
“You’ll be treated like a servant and paid even less. All that sewing will ruin your eyes,” Isabella predicted. “And what kind of life will that give your child?”
“I don’t know,” Jacquelyn admitted in frustration. “But at least it will be something true.”
“And what about the fact that the father of your child has left you and the babe to fend for yourselves?” Isabella said, her tone becoming strident. “A man should be held responsible for his get. At the very least, he should provide for your living until the child comes of age. That’s also true.”
Jacquelyn stopped at the door and looked back at her mother over her shoulder. “He doesn’t know. And he never will.”
Chapter 30
Gabriel wasn’t sure what he expected from Jacquelyn’s mother. His experience with women who sold their favors was limited to the whores Meri frequented in Port Royal. He certainly didn’t anticipate a lady of such obvious refinement and dignity as Isabella Wren.
“Lord Drake, what an unexpected pleasure,” Isabella said, her slender fingers lifted gracefully in greeting. “My daughter has told me so much about you.”
Gabriel digested that mildly disturbing fact. He recognized echoes of Lyn’s fine features in her mother’s lovely face as he bowed over Isabella’s hand. Jacquelyn had told him her mother was fluent in five languages. Gabe decided Isabella Wren could still bring a man to his knees in each of them.
“And she has told me much of you as well,” he said circumspectly.
Ever the coquette, Isabella cocked her head, her astonishing violet eyes twinkling. “All of it true, alas! Pray, be seated.”
Gabriel was still covered with dust and muck from his helter-skelter ride from Cornwall, but his quest to find Jacquelyn would brook no delay for niceties like a bed in a roadside inn or a hot bath. He’d slept on
ly when he could go no further, hobbling his mount and catching a few hours rest under an accommodating oak. He traded horses at almost every stop and rode one nearly to exhausted collapse. Even so, the trip had taken him three days. He knew he looked like Hell on a plate and yet this elegant woman insisted he sit and make small talk while her servants prepared finger sandwiches and biscuits.
“Is Mistress Wren here?” he asked.
“No, since my daughter left your employ, she is seeking another post. She went to see about a very unsuitable position with a modiste, of all things,” Isabella said, making a moue of distaste. “Still, it could have been worse, I suppose. She might have tried becoming a hatter. I believe they generally go quite batty.”
“Why is she doing this?” Gabriel was unable to remain seated. He stood and paced Isabella’s parlor. “She doesn’t need to support herself. Doesn’t she realize I’d give her everything I have?”
“I’m gratified to hear it,” Isabella said primly.
“Besides, Jacquelyn’s far too accomplished for a position like that,” Gabriel said, trying to make sense of Lyn’s actions. “She’s run a large estate, nearly single-handed. At the very least, she might be looking for a post as a governess in a fine house, not working in a shabby little shop somewhere.”
“I agree. You know, Jacquelyn didn’t tell me how very attractive you are, Lord Drake. A nice hot bath and a quick trip to a gifted tailor and I’ve no doubt you’d cut quite a figure.” Isabella smiled at him as she poured out his tea and dropped a large lump of sugar in without asking his preference. “Unfortunately, she also neglected to mention that you’re not terribly bright.”
Gabriel jerked back in surprise as though she’d slapped him.
“If a thoroughly capable young woman does not seek a position for which she seems to be uniquely qualified, what does that suggest to you?” Isabella asked pleasantly.
