Treacherous Temptations

by Victoria Vane

  “What? A gentleman curate or a crude country squire? Bah! You will have no such thing! Your father desired an advantageous match for you, and so shall it be. London is the only place to contrive such an alliance.”

  “But don’t you see how unfit I am? I have none of the accomplishments or sophisticated wiles that such a gentleman would desire in a wife.” Mary rose and paced the room. “I have been only once to London. I don’t know anyone there. I haven’t the clothes or the connections.” Her protests escalated to a staccato bombardment. “I don’t dance. I have no notion of their manners. How should I even know to go on? I shall be nothing more than a country frump subject to scorn at every turn!”

  “Preposterous, my dear! You quite underestimate your natural charms. To many gentlemen you would be considered quite a prize.”

  “A prize?” she laughed. “Then you must refer to my chief asset–my bank account. If so, perhaps you could just save us both a great deal of trouble with an advertisement in The Daily Gazetteer. How about, ‘Vast fortune awaits marriage-minded nobleman… Only those willing to overlook the dull and dowdy heiress need apply.’”

  Sir Richard gaped, his red-veined jowls quivering with the soundless motion of his mouth. To Mary he resembled nothing more than a landed trout. Knowing she had already lost the war, she could only bask in the sweet satisfaction of this tiny victory.

  Chapter Three

  HANOVER SQUARE, LONDON

  Sir Richard’s eyes rolled heavenward with a great shuddering grunt before he collapsed onto the silk damask settee where he sprawled, panting, for several minutes, heedless that his exhausted member still hung from the open fall of his breeches.

  Concealing her repugnance with a delicate shake of her lace-edged handkerchief, Lady Barbara Blanchard patted her swollen lips, and brushed the bodice of her Spitalfields silk gown to remove the residue of her lover’s spilled semen.

  “Then it is all arranged? The girl will come to me?” She spoke as if their prior conversation had never been interrupted.

  “Indeed she shall. She is in sad need of polish before I can even think to present her, but whom better than such a diamond as you to smooth her rough edges?”

  “Who better indeed?” Barbara agreed.

  “I wish to see this done immediately, Barbara. I don’t expect a miracle, mind you. I only need for her to look and speak the part of a lady sufficiently well to negotiate the best return.”

  “Return? But what can you mean?” Barbara asked. “Surely you do not intend to reap personal gain from this?”

  “Quid pro quo, my dear.” He laughed unapologetically. “Why the devil should I not? I’m a politician after all, and in politics, all favors must be a worthy exchange. Thus, the girl will be given to a gentleman willing to demonstrate proper gratitude. Nothing in this world comes free, after all—even you, my dear.” He gave a painful tweak to her nipples.

  No, she was not free in any sense of the word, for Sir Richard held the deed to her house and provided her only source of income aside from a modest jointure. Certain sordid rumors following her late husband’s unfortunate demise had spoiled any chance of another advantageous marriage. Although Barbara secretly despised him, at least their “arrangement” had saved her the disgrace of being turned out of her home.

  “I warn that you will have your hands full, Barbara. I found her a veritable hoyden instead of the Leicester lamb I had anticipated.”

  “But if it is as you say, she is a lamb with a golden fleece.”

  “So she is, but she’s also blasted headstrong.”

  “Then you simply lack finesse, my darling.” Barbara chuckled.

  “You have never complained before.” He tucked his spent member back into his breeches with a yawn.

  Little you know, you selfish lout. Barbara hid her true sentiments behind a false smile, knowing she hadn’t the freedom to say them aloud. Not yet. In her present circumstances, she still needed him. She reminded herself what a trifling inconvenience he was. Her arrangement with Sir Richard allowed her reasonable freedom, as he was wont to turn a blind eye to other paramours, and his preference for fellatio saved her all the trouble of unclothing and re-dressing her hair after his visits.

  He appeared at four of the clock every day but Sunday, ostensibly to take tea, and usually departed within three quarters of an hour, after a restorative cup. The time of day and brevity of his visits actually kept the tongues from wagging. In sum, it was little work for the benefits she’d gained. Nevertheless, she was tired of being a private whore, dependent upon one man’s whim.

  Barbara now studied his repulsive and ponderous slumbering form. He was softly snoring, a rivulet of drool spilling from his gaping mouth. Suppressing her revulsion and the temptation to smother him with a pillow, she restrained her actions to nudging his shin with the toe of her slipper.

  “What? What?” He blinked at her stupidly.

  “How soon, Sir Richard?” she asked.

  His bushy brows furrowed.

  Barbara hid her annoyance. “The girl, Miss Edwardes. How soon does she arrive?”

  “Why I imagine as soon as a coach can be sent to collect her.”

  “Then I shall send mine at once. Better yet,” she decided, “I shall go to Leicester and collect her myself.” Her mind was already abuzz. Sir Richard’s predicament with his ward had provided the very opportunity she sought. Her incipient plan, beautiful in its sheer simplicity had taken root. If she played her cards right, she would once again have the means to live out her life according to her true station.

  “I’d call that a capital idea, madam! Simply capital. I’ll send word. Shall I accompany you?”

  Barbara suppressed a shudder. “How gallant, Sir Richard, but I would never dream of asking. A gentleman of your standing surely has more pressing business. Besides, ‘tis but two days to Leicester with a coach-and-six. If you would simply engage some extra footmen and outriders, and place a second carriage at my disposal for baggage and servants, I am certain to manage very well.”

  “All will be done as you wish, my pet.” He smiled benignly.

  She toyed with his cravat, her gently arched brows pulling together in a slight frown. “Darling, I fear I must trespass once more upon your munificence regarding her expenses.”

  “Expenses?” His expression darkened.

  “Indeed, Sir Richard! If she is truly as gauche as you say, I wouldn’t dare bring her to town until she is presentable. That will require a complete wardrobe, as well as the services of a proper abigail and dancing master. You say she is an heiress; has she any jewels of her own? If not, these must be procured as well.” She ran a manicured finger over his fleshy lips. “You do wish her to make the best possible impression, do you not? If you truly wish me to take her under my wing, you must understand there will be considerable costs involved.”

  His scowl deepened. “And I suppose you expect me to provide you a blank check?”

  “How else is it to be done?” she asked. “Or do you intend to just spring your hoyden upon the ton?

  “If I must, then I bloody well must.” He gave a resigned groan, adding. “Just remember, Barbara, that I always expect a return on an investment.”

  Barbara flashed her most effulgent smile. “But of course, darling.”

  It was more than she could have wished for. Unwittingly, the man who held her captive to his prurient desires had just provided her the very means to break free. Once the heiress was in her grasp, she would debase herself no longer by servicing this fat, flatulent, fool.

  Inspired with new hope of independence, she cast a sidelong glance to the ticking grandfather clock. He had been twenty minutes already and she had so very much to do. “Shall I ring now for tea, Sir Richard?” she asked sweetly, rising in a swish of silk and tugging the bell pull before he could answer.

  First, would be a summons to Hadley. It would take weeks to reach him in Rome, but he was vital to her plan. If carried out with proper skill and circumspection, their p
rospects would be incontrovertibly altered, and their future secured after these miserable years apart. She and he were in a like position, each a whore to the same master; she as Sir Richard’s mistress and Hadley as his spy on the Pretender.

  She thought of him now with mixed feelings of yearning and resentment. He had once panted after her as devoted and adoring as a lapdog, but the years and distance had changed him, had hardened him. His once frequent letters had become both rare and terse, and although she had secured his very means of livelihood, he had shown little appreciation for her efforts. Yet, given his antipathy for his present circumstances, she doubted persuasion would prove very difficult.

  Barbara’s heart surged with renewed confidence that with an heiress in her grasp she would have the means to bring Hadley to heel once more.

  Chapter Four

  WELHAM GROVE, LEICESTERSHIRE—MAY 1727

  “Miss Molly! Miss Molly! You have never seen such a thing!” the breathless maid charged into Mary’s sanctuary. “’Tis the most splendid sight ye ever seen. Almost like a parade it is. Three fine coaches coming up the drive! Three, mind you! With outriders! And Jacobs the groom says the first one be pulled by the prettiest team o’ six he ever laid eyes on.”

  “What on earth?” Mary tossed her book aside and jumped to her feet. Trotting to the window that faced out upon the circular drive, she peeled back the heavy draperies to steal a look at the procession.

  “You see, Miss? Isn’t it grand?” Jenny squealed.

  Mary’s squinting effort defined the escutcheon of a boar and shield on the red-lacquered traveling coach, identifying her approaching guest as a person of great consequence. She wondered who had come and why. No guest at Welham Grove had ever arrived with such pomp and circumstance. Sir Richard was the closest she had ever been to nobility and he was only a Knight of the Shire.

  Mary turned to her maid, with her pulse racing. “Notify cook that she must prepare a formal tea at once. With only the best silver and china, mind you. You must then hurry back to my chamber to help me to dress. Make haste, Jenny!”

  “Aye, miss!” The maid lifted her skirts and darted out the door.

  Mary’s hand flew to her hair and the corkscrew ringlets that failed miserably to be contained, even in a tightly plaited bun. A glance in the mirror over the mantle confirmed that she more resembled a servant than the mistress of the manor. Following Jenny’s example, Mary bustled up the stairs in vain hope of making herself presentable to whoever had come to call.

  With increasing panic, Mary ripped pins from her hair and yanked at her laces, somehow managing to disrobe down to her shift and stays before Jenny fluttered in with a giggle.

  “Lackaday miss! That stiff ol’ Wilkins was tripping all over hisself.”

  “Just who is it, Jenny? And why have they come?”

  “Beg pardon, miss!” Jenny bobbed with a nervous titter. “I was to give you this.” She handed her mistress a gold embossed calling card. “Plum forgot meself wi’ all the commotion.”

  “The Countess of Blanchard?” Mary studied the card in consternation while Jenny flung open the wardrobe doors, snatching out the half-dozen dresses inside, and tossing them onto the bed. Jenny then set to work pulling down her untidy bun. “Don’t fret, miss. It needs only a bit of ribbon and a few more pins.”

  Mary stared in dismay at her pitiful selection. For the past three years, mostly spent attending her ailing father, she had given little heed to her appearance. Outside of two half-mourning gowns in the unbecoming shades of lavender and dove grey, she had but one Sunday mantua. It too, was terribly outmoded.

  “Might I suggest the lavender, miss?” Jenny said. “’Tis not so bad with your hair and eyes, and mayhap we can add a lace kerchief to spruce it up a bit?”

  Ten minutes later, with her hair repaired and dressed in her best gown, Mary descended the stairs with a steadying hold on the banister to support her shaking knees.

  …

  Upon alighting from the stifling confines of her traveling coach, Lady Barbara Blanchard smoothed the creases from her skirts and inhaled tentatively of the country air. She wrinkled her delicate nose, as if testing the quality of it, for the fresh fragrance, redolent of spring grass and honeysuckle, was a strange and exotic mix to a London dweller accustomed to the ubiquitous coal and inescapable stench of the Thames.

  She next cast a disparaging eye over the manor house of Welham Grove. She had expected something far grander in scale than this common three story brick dwelling that seemed to lack any architectural improvements in the last half-century. Perhaps the claims of the girl’s wealth were exaggerated? But then again, in the years as his mistress, Sir Richard had never given her any reason to doubt his word.

  Moreover, he had provided a blank check to prepare the chit for her launch in society, an offer Barbara had taken full advantage of—three carriages’ worth, to be precise. While she alone occupied the first, protected by four outriders, the second contained her personal maid, and a London mantua-maker accompanied by two sempstresses. The third vehicle in the caravan accommodated several more menials and the many trunks that would be required to sustain her during a duration she could only hope would be brief.

  Ignoring the hustle and bustle of her entourage attending the horses, the carriages, and unloading of baggage, Lady Blanchard turned toward the house and with a mere lift of her delicately shaped brow, she commanded her footman to rap at the door.

  …

  Mary perched on the window seat in the drawing room with the same dog-eared volume of Dean Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels she’d been engrossed in before Jenny had shattered her peace. This time, however, Mary’s eyes were blind to the print, as she alternated between idle page turnings, nail biting, and stolen glances at the door.

  It wasn’t as if she’d never received an unexpected guest. Indeed, the vicar’s wife had developed an annoyingly frequent habit of just popping by, but a coach-and-six carrying a countess and full retinue, was quite beyond Mary’s ken.

  Unable to suppress the compulsion, Mary peered through a crack in the drapes as the first carriage came to a halt under the portico. A footman in red and black satin livery bounded down from his seat beside the coachman to lower the step and open the door. When he reached into the carriage to assist its owner, she caught a glimpse of a white gloved hand, a woman’s hand, followed by an entire velvet-clad arm. Her breath caught when out ducked a richly plumed bonnet, adorning the head of the most elegant creature Mary had ever seen.

  When the lady stepped back to survey the house, Mary shrank from the window with a horrified gasp that she might have been caught spying.

  “Have you ever seen such a fine lady?” Jenny asked.

  Mary confessed she had not.

  Moments later the door opened to Wilkins’ stuttering stentorian announcement of the Countess of Blanchard, followed by a grand and flowing entrance that stole Mary’s breath. Although splendid to behold at a distance, in proximity Lady Blanchard beggared all description.

  She wore a midnight-blue velvet traveling suit, richly adorned at the elbows with elaborate engageantes in multiple layers of point d’Bruxelles. In striking contrast to her sky-blue eyes and alabaster skin was her shining raven black hair. The countess advanced into the room as if she commanded it, casting an arch look at Mary and then sweeping the room as if seeking other occupants to admire her.

  Mary’s apprehension grew when the lady’s gaze settled upon her with a frown. “You are Miss Mary Elizabeth Edwardes?”

  Recalled to decorum, Mary dipped into a deep curtsey that she prayed would pass muster. “Yes, my lady. But I am usually called Molly.”

  The countess made an expression of distaste. “Molly? I’m afraid that will not do at all! Why would anyone christened after two queens choose to be called by a name reserved for tavern wenches and chambermaids? It is beyond my comprehension! No, my dear girl. Henceforth you must answer only to Mary or Mary Elizabeth, but never again shall you be Molly.”
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br />   Mary gaped as Lady Blanchard proceeded to remove her hat pins. “Now then, Miss Mary Elizabeth Edwardes, you might also wish to know that in polite circles, it is considered excessively vulgar to stare.”

  Mary felt the spots of color rise in her cheeks. “I-I beg your pardon, my lady. I have never moved in polite circles.”

  The perfectly shaped lips that had chastised her formed a slow smile that displayed pearly little teeth. “Then it is a blessing I have come, is it not?”

  “But I am confounded as to the nature of your visit. Have we a mutual acquaintance?”

  “La, child! You really have no idea who I am?”

  Bewildered, Mary shook her head. “None at all.”

  “My dear, dear girl, I am come at Sir Richard’s bidding.” She smiled as if that statement would bring enlightenment.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but I am still quite in the dark. He came to see me several weeks ago, but I have not heard from him since.”

  “Botheration!” the countess sighed, placing her plumed hat upon a half moon table. “One can leave nothing of import to a man!” She plucked off her gloves one finger at a time, placed them with her hat, and then tripped across the room to perch upon the settle. After making a great production of arranging her voluminous skirts, she beckoned to the younger woman. “Come, my dear.” She patted the space beside her, offering an encouraging smile. “It seems we have much to chat about.”

  Mary seated herself stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, feeling more self-conscious of her dowdiness beside her elegant guest.

  “We indeed have a mutual acquaintance in Sir Richard Fiske,” the countess explained. “He has acquainted me with your somewhat…unique…circumstances, and it seems he is quite at wits’ end what to do with you!” The countess chortled.

  If Sir Richard had sent the countess, Mary’s wish that the subject of her marriage would be forgotten had apparently been in vain.