My Fair Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Her marriage to Basil had in no way been a love match. Her father had wanted her to marry him, and being a naïve eighteen-year-old and a very dutiful daughter, she’d done as he had asked. But sorrow? No, she had felt no real sorrow at Basil’s passing, only regret and relief.

  She considered the viscount’s words. She’d had no idea he had harbored such deep feelings for his wife. He must have loved her a great deal to still mourn her so keenly after all this time. Over the years, she’d heard a few murmured asides about his supposed profligate ways, despite the fact that he was a respected member of the nobility. Perhaps he was one of those men who hid his grief in work and occasional bouts of wild living.

  “Thus my appearance here tonight,” he continued. “I have decided, somewhat reluctantly, to surround myself with eligible ladies to see if I might by chance cross paths with a girl who can engage my affections. Single life grows lonely after a time, I’m afraid. And a man in my position has need of a family. My dear Eleanor and I were not fortunate enough to be blessed with children before her untimely demise.”

  More sympathy rose inside her, since she knew first-hand the pain of being childless.

  “An accident, was it not?” she murmured. “Her death?”

  A quick flash of pain shone in his blue eyes. “Yes, a tragic accident. She was afflicted with sleepwalking, and—” He broke off, involuntarily squeezing her hand as they continued to dance. Swallowing, he collected himself. “She stumbled on the stairs…I’m sorry, I don’t like to speak of it.”

  “Of course not. I should not have inquired.”

  “No, no, it’s quite all right. But perhaps we should talk of more cheerful subjects.”

  “Yes, I quite agree.”

  He paused for a moment as if to collect his thoughts and emotions before continuing the conversation.

  “The Season seems to be off to a fine start,” he said. “Already London is brimming with elegant Society, and your sister appears to be enjoying herself. From what I understand, she’s already making a bit of a splash among the Ton, if it’s not too forward of me to say.”

  “Yes, she is taking very well.” Julianna smiled. “But then I knew she would. Maris is a sweet girl and cannot help but be liked. Even the queen commented on her delightful, unaffected manner.”

  “Look, there is your sister now,” Middleton observed.

  Julianna turned her head, locating Maris among the crowd that lined the sides of the assembly room. Her sister appeared to be having an animated discussion with Major William Waring, a handsome, forthright young man who’d returned from fighting in Spain only a few weeks ago.

  So sad about the loss of his arm, Julianna thought, noticing the one pinned-up coat sleeve. She had heard that due to his disability, he’d been compelled to sell his commission as a cavalry officer and retire from active battlefield service. Despite being the son of the Earl of Grassingham, he had two older brothers, a circumstance that must surely leave him few career options and little money. She supposed he might accept a position in the Home Office, or even in Parliament should he ever wish to run for a seat.

  She watched Maris place her hand over the Major’s good arm and begin to stroll the perimeter. Her sister’s cheeks were flushed pink as June roses, her pale cream gown an attractive foil beside her escort’s dark attire.

  “A remarkably pretty girl, your sister,” Middleton commented in an admiring tone.

  “Yes, but young yet.”

  “Not too young to be out in Society, though, or to take a husband.”

  She stiffened, not quite liking the viscount’s obvious interest in her sister. “Maris has plenty of time to make her choice.”

  He gave her a quizzical look.” You aren’t warning me off by any chance, are you?”

  Part of her wanted to say yes, wanted to tell him he was too mature and too sophisticated for her innocent sister. But young or not, Maris had a good head on her shoulders, and would be capable of making the right decision about her own future.

  Wouldn’t she?

  If Rafe were there, Julianna would have sought his advice.

  But he isn’t here and never will be, she admonished, abruptly recalling the social chasm between them. Besides, family matters such as these were up to her to decide. What was she doing considering asking Rafe, anyway?

  He is my lover, not my husband, after all.

  No, she told herself, if Middleton courted her sister and Maris genuinely came to love him, then she would not stand in her way. After all, Julianna had promised herself not to interfere. So long as Maris was safe and happy, she would be content.

  “Of course not,” Julianna said, swallowing her misgivings. “It’s just that I would ask any gentleman with an interest to have a care. Society is new to Maris. It’s possible she could be swayed by a charming manner or a handsome face.”

  “Well, I suppose I should take that as a compliment, you considering me both charming and handsome. But not to worry, my lady, my intentions toward your sister are strictly honorable.”

  “Thank you, my lord, I am sure they are.”

  So why do I still feel uneasy? she questioned.

  “I have your permission to pay my addresses then?”

  She hesitated for one last second. “Unless my sister has some objection, yes, you are most welcome to call upon her.”

  “So you’ll come again on Monday?” Rafe murmured the following afternoon as he tied the laces on one of her kidskin half-boots, her ankle propped on his knee as he knelt at her side.

  “As early in the day as I can manage,” she promised. As she now understood, to deny him was to deny herself.

  From her seat on the padded dressing-table stool, she gazed at his bent head. Without knowing she meant to do it, she sifted her fingers through his hair, then along the curve of his ear and jaw. A new growth of whiskers scratched faintly against her skin, the dark shadow giving him the look of a rake or a renegade.

  He certainly ravished me, she thought with a secret smile.

  Yet even in the deepest throes of passion, Rafe was careful, always seeing to her pleasure, even if it meant delaying or denying his own. His consideration never failed to warm her heart or wring a smile from her lips. The more she knew him, the more she liked, his thoughtfulness but one of the qualities that had turned what might have been bondage into nothing less than bliss.

  Despite being well satisfied from their energetic lovemaking, she still craved the connection of touching him, the satisfaction of maintaining the simplest of joinings. Moving her hand to his neck, she caressed the skin just under his cravat.

  Finished tying the lace of her boot into a neat, snug bow, Rafe gave her stocking-clad calf a gentle pat. Easing her foot onto the floor, he lowered her skirts into place. Rising to his full height, he offered a hand to assist her to her feet. “Ready?”

  She nodded, stifling a sigh at knowing she must leave.

  Preceding him, she moved to the door.

  “Wait,” he called. “What’s this?”

  Crossing back to the bed, he bent down and retrieved something from the carpet. As he turned, she saw the slender length of gold and seed pearls that dangled in his hand. “Your bracelet, my lady. It must have slipped to the floor after I removed it earlier.”

  “Oh, heavens! I don’t know how I could have been so careless. I would be most distressed if this went missing.”

  He quirked a brow. “A gift, then? From someone special?”

  “My mother. She gave this to me for my birthday the year before she died.”

  His face grew solemn. “Then I am glad it has come to no harm.”

  Taking her hand, he looped the jewelry around her wrist and fastened the clasp. With the bracelet secure, he raised her palm and pressed a kiss onto its center.

  “I know I shouldn’t wear it,” she said, “since I would be crushed if it were to get lost or broken someday.”

  “But where is the joy in keeping precious things locked up out of sight? Your mother wo
uld want you to enjoy her gift rather than let it molder away in a dark box somewhere.”

  She smiled, his words echoing what she herself had always thought, and what so many others failed to appreciate. “Exactly so. Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For understanding, that’s all.”

  Dimples popped to life in his cheeks as his lips turned up.

  Watching them, and him, her heart turned over.

  Bending, he took her mouth in a last passionate joining. Closing her eyes, she hummed out her pleasure and kissed him back.

  Two evenings later, Burton St. George paid a visit of an entirely different sort.

  Seated in a chair he’d been compelled to brush off beforehand with a handkerchief, Burton watched his old friend Sir Stephen Hurst pour himself a fresh whisky.

  Hurst’s hands shook as he drank the glass’s contents in a few gulping swallows. A thin line of alcohol escaped his thick lips to slide over his chin, a single droplet collecting on the full underside. The drop waggled there for a long moment before falling off to stain his cravat. Hurst wiped his lips dry on his shirt cuff, then reached again for the whisky decanter to pour himself another glass.

  Unable to stand seeing a repetition of the other man’s repellent display, Burton looked away to survey the shabby interior of Hurst’s drawing room. Years ago, the room had been lovely, pristine and fresh, styled with fine furnishings and elegant silken appointments done in warm shades of blue and gold. But that had been in the day when Hurst’s parents had been alive, before he had come into the title and been allowed to run unrestrained through the family fortune.

  The whole townhouse needed a good airing and a thorough scouring, since the rooms now smelled of alcohol, stale cigar smoke, and dust. A plate of half-eaten cheese sat moldering on one of the Chippendale end tables.

  Disgusting really, how low the man has allowed himself to sink, Burton decided. Anyone else would have maidservants to keep things tidy. But Hurst had trouble retaining the girls he hired, since he insisted on bedding them all, even the ugly ones. Of those who hadn’t run away, Burton knew of at least six Hurst had gotten pregnant before turning them out into the streets.

  There was such a thing as prudent discretion, after all. A gentleman, Burton believed, should never let himself devolve into mindless animal behavior. Nor fall so deeply beneath the power of his own urges that he forgot things like cleanliness and comfort.

  There truly was no excuse for such stupid, excessive debauchery. He didn’t know why he continued to tolerate Hurst. Loyalty to a boyhood friend, he supposed. Loyalty, however, had its limits.

  “So what’s this all about, Hurst?” Burton demanded with unconcealed impatience. “What’s so urgent I needed to cut short my evening to come over here and listen to your whining?”

  “I don’t whine,” Hurst whined, wiping damp fingers through his disheveled brown hair. “And I take exception to your tone.”

  Burton got to his feet. “Then I’ll take myself off. I have far more interesting things to do than sit here watching you drink yourself into a stupor.”

  “N-No, Middleton, don’t go. I’m sorry. P-Please, please sit. I…I need your help.”

  “My help with what?”

  Hurst’s eyes widened in a rather bovine bulge as he leaned closer. “Pendragon. The bloody bastard’s after us. All of us. He’s hunting us down one by one, and you and I are next.”

  Burton shot out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have told you before, Pendragon’s not a threat. The whoreson may have his fingers in half the business dealings in the country, but he isn’t after any of us. He knows we can’t be touched. After all, who would believe him or his slanderous accusations?”

  “No one needs to believe them. He’s finding ways to destroy us behind the scenes. Haven’t you heard about Challoner?”

  Intrigued, Burton resumed his seat. “What about Challoner?”

  “He’s in debtor’s prison. They came and clapped him in irons yesterday morning and dragged him off to Fleet. He mortgaged his estate for a huge sum and now it’s gone, all of it, when he couldn’t pay.”

  “Did Pendragon hold the note?”

  Hurst shook his head. “There was no note. Challoner invested heavily in a shipping company that went bankrupt. When its four best vessels sank, Challoner’s fortune went down with them.”

  The slight tension in Burton’s shoulders faded. “Man’s a fool to have tossed his money away on a speculative investment. If he landed himself in the River Tick, then it is no more than he deserves. As for Pendragon, he may be an admittedly cunning bastard, but I fail to see the connection.”

  “I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I have, especially after hearing the truth about what happened to Frank Underhill.”

  Burton thought about Underhill.

  Brash, bombastic, swaggering Frank, who had always been primed for a prank or a dare. Years ago, in their salad days, the four of them had been inseparable: Underhill, Hurst, Challoner, and himself. They’d wenched and caroused and gambled from one end of the English Isles to the other. But times changed, men matured. Friends, even close ones, drifted apart.

  Three years ago, Underhill had gone missing during a trip to Southampton. At the time, no one knew for certain what had happened to him, but the authorities surmised he’d been kidnapped by a press-gang. Inquiries had immediately been put out seeking his recovery, but no trace of him had ever been found.

  Then, two months ago, his family received a letter from the Royal Navy. The notice informed them of Underhill’s status as a common seaman and his death by execution for deserting his post in His Majesty’s navy. They went on to offer their posthumous apologies for not ascertaining his true identity until after his trial and execution.

  The shock of it had sent his loved ones into the deepest of mourning. The puzzlement of it had given others, friends and enemies alike, much speculative grist. Had he simply been the unlucky victim of happenstance? Or had someone deliberately lured him to his unhappy, and ultimately fatal, plight?

  “Sent chills down my spine when I heard the news,” Hurst muttered, swilling more whisky. “Been watching my back ever since.”

  Paranoid sot, Burton thought, seeing shadows everywhere he goes. Hurst really was beginning to unravel.

  “It’s doubtful that you will be impressed after all this time, Hurst,” Burton said derisively, “especially here in the heart of London. Underhill’s kidnapping was unfortunate, but he ought not to have frequented taverns in dangerous parts of seaport towns. No doubt he was looking for a drink and a likely whore when he was set upon.”

  “Yes, but what was he doing there in Southampton? Not a place Underhill seemed likely to go.”

  “Who knows what he was up to by then. If it will put your mind at ease, I did a bit of investigating at the time of his disappearance and found nothing suspicious. The press-gangs were very active that year. I think the poor blighter was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Hurst frowned and poured another drink. “Still, what about Challoner? Two of the four of us, seems suspicious to me.”

  “Coincidence. Challoner is an idiot when it comes to money; you know that as well as I. I’m not surprised he has ended up in the gaoler’s grasp. Which may be your next home, if you aren’t more careful.”

  Burton surveyed the room with revulsion before pinning a condemning eye on Hurst. “Straighten yourself up, man. You’ve turned into a disgrace, letting drink and dissipation addle your mind.”

  “But what about Pendragon?” Hurst whined.

  “What about him? You give him far more credit than he deserves. He is an insignificant worm I crushed years ago, and you worry far too much about matters that are best left in the past where they belong. He’s not some avenging angel sent down to punish us, you know.”

  “More like the devil, that’s what he is.”

  “You may fear him, but I do not. I lose no sleep worrying over Mr. Rafe-bloody-Pendragon,”
Burton spat with dismissive vehemence.

  God, I hate the very sound of the bastard’s name, Burton thought, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Pendragon had been a plague upon his life for as long as he could remember. Even as a young child, he had known the name and despised it.

  But he had put Pendragon in his place once, and if the lowborn jackanapes had the temerity to strike at him again, he would find himself sorry.

  Very sorry indeed.

  Pendragon might have a reputation for ruthlessness, but there was no man alive more genuinely ruthless than Burton St. George.

  Burton rose from his chair. “Put away the bottle, Hurst, and get someone to clean up this pigsty you call a house. And while you are at it, take a bath.” He wrinkled his nose. “You smell.”

  Hurst sputtered out an objection.

  Burton waved it aside. “And don’t bother me again with any more of your ridiculous rantings. If I get another summons from you like the one tonight, I’ll take pains to make sure you regret disturbing me. Do I make myself clear?”

  Hurst nodded furiously, his hands shaking like leaves in a storm. To stop their movement, he curled them into balls on his lap. “Yes, Middleton,” he murmured obsequiously.

  “I bid you good evening, then,” Burton said, donning his hat and picking up his cane. “Do call when you are feeling better. Perhaps we can take in a boxing mill or a horse race. Nothing better than a good bit of sport, eh?”

  Chapter Nine

  WHAT’S THIS?” JULIANNA asked as she crossed into the Queens Square sitting room.

  Resembling a bright patch of ocean, a wide blue cotton blanket lay on the floor before the fireplace, the wood in the grate burning with a contented crackle. Off to one side stood a wicker hamper, the top closed so its contents remained a mystery.

  “This,” Rafe declared as he followed her into the room, “is a nuncheon. I thought you might enjoy a light repast. After that welcome at the door, you must have worked up an appetite. I know I have.”

  A sizzle streaked over her skin, her body even now alive with the memory of his passionate greeting. During the weeks she had been meeting him here, Rafe hadn’t once let her come upstairs without stopping her beforehand to give her a most thorough and enthusiastic embrace.