by Jen YatesNZ
‘Philip?’
‘Philip. My brother—half-brother actually. He was killed at the Battle of Vitoria.’
Suddenly the older woman surged upward with her arms out-stretched.
‘Come,’ she begged huskily and Jassie rose and went willingly into her embrace.
They clung for long moments while Jassie fought to make sense of the cascade of her feelings. Shock. Sadness. Joy.
Isabelle Bouvier sat her back gently on the chair and settled herself once again on the chaise.
‘Did you really only come to me seeking help?’
‘Yes! Oh—what I really came for has gone right out of my head—and that’s saying something,’ Jassie added ruefully. ‘Does anyone else know about you? The Dowager Countess of Windermere for instance?’
Isabelle’s smile was bright and appreciative.
‘You’re not slow, are you my dear? Yes, Olwynne and I keep in regular contact. Have done ever since Mary died. There was little I could do that wouldn’t bring scandal on your head and so I settled for watching over you from afar—through Olwynne. She’s been a loyal friend to you all these years.’
‘I know that,’ Jassie answered with a warm smile. ‘I remember little of my own mother except that she always seemed to be sickly and in bed. If I had any mothering at all it came from Lady O—and Morrie, Miss Morrison my governess. And I had the best big brother a girl could have and—I had Rogan. I’ve always had Rogan—until I went and spoiled it. He was my—everything—after Philip was killed and still—I—risked that most precious of friendships because I wanted—more. But—Lady Bouvier—’
‘Call me Belle—please. And may I call you Jassinda?’
‘Jassie,’ Jassie breathed, her heart swelling with the realization she’d found someone who shared the same ancestry that she did. It was quite startling how important she suddenly understood that was; how it gave her a sense of having an anchor. ‘I want to know all about you, about my mother, your family—my family! Why—why did you become a—a Madame? I always understood the comfort with which we lived was due entirely to Mama’s ‘portion’ as it were. You must have had the same?’
Isabelle regarded her with a level gaze then drew in a breath as if trying to settle her nerves.
‘I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have asked that—’, Jassie began but Isabelle smiled resolutely.
‘You have every right to know my story, Jassie, just as I’m going to demand yours shortly. Mary was the quiet one. I—was not. Our mother died when we were in our early teens and our father’s spinster aunt came to live with us. Aunt Elisabet was a martinet and I hated her with a vengeance. Mary had no trouble for she was ever happy to be organized and guided by someone else. I was not! The only useful thing that woman ever said to me was said under extreme duress after I’d turned away yet another suitor for my hand. She wanted nothing more than to get us off her hands and collect the stipend and cottage at Brighton my father had promised her.
‘I had no desire to marry and hand my life and fortune, modest as it was, to a man who then had the right to use it, and myself, as he saw fit. And so I told the old besom and she lost all semblance of the well-bred manners she’d been trying to instill in us. I was an ungrateful little bitch and spoilt for choice, apparently. I had no appreciation of the chances I had by being well-dowered and fair of face and figure as well. I would end up alone and a law unto myself and therefore the butt of cruel innuendo if I didn’t accept someone soon. Already twenty-one, I was in danger of finding myself on the shelf and ignored by any but the most ineligible. Worse I was influencing Mary to follow my example.
‘Truth was, we were having too much fun and had no inclination to bring it to an end. Then Father died—in the card room at White’s. He left Aunt Elisabet exactly what she wanted, the cottage in Brighton and an income. As soon as all was settled and with Father barely cold in his grave she left for Brighton, leaving us to fend for ourselves. We deserved no better for we were totally ungrateful for what she had sacrificed these last few years.
‘Mary was appalled and accepted the next suitor who offered for her hand, for of course we were now in possession of a comfortable fortune each. We argued terribly for I thought her very foolish. Your father was no great catch, though he was nice enough. But Mary was suddenly terrified she’d be left on the shelf and this, to her, was the worst outcome she could envisage for her life. Whereas the opposite was true for me. My resolve hardened once Mary was gone and the gossip began. I was accounted a diamond of the first water in those days, as was Mary. But immediately I signified my intention to live alone and take charge of my own household a subtle change came over how I was received in society. In fact, it became obvious in a very short time that I was no longer being received in society!
‘Mary begged me to come and live with her but I could imagine nothing worse than being buried alive in that rustic little village where you grew up. I’d never lived anywhere but London. I will not deny I made some foolish decisions and was as naive and foolish as Aunt Elisabet had often told me I was. But when my best friend accused me of making cow’s eyes at her husband and told me that several other of our friends were also concerned, I decided I would be what they were painting me. And I started with my friend’s husband. He was a very handsome and unscrupulous rake. There were a couple more and of course I found myself totally ostracized by the female half of the beau monde—but extremely popular with the other half. And so the idea was born. I became a courtesan—available only to the wealthy. When that palled, I set up this place. Mary never forgave me and that is really my only regret—and that I could not be the comfort to you I should’ve been on her death. I’ve lived my life on my own terms and if I had the chance to relive it I’d probably do the same again. So there you have the story of your only living relative, Jassie. I’m unashamedly beyond the pale and you may never be seen in public with me or ever let it be known you even know me, much less acknowledge the relationship, but I shall be very honored if we can continue our association as we have begun it—quietly over a cup of tea from time to time, if you will it.’
‘I will definitely be back. You’ll probably get sick of me!’
Isabelle laughed outright; a beautiful bell-like sound with husky undertones Jassie knew must drive men mad.
‘Now,’ she continued hurriedly before Jassie could comment further, ‘I’m going to call for a fresh pot of tea and some of Cook’s fruit tartlets and you are going to tell me how you thought I might be of help to you.’
It was well into the afternoon when Jassie pulled her cloak about her once more and stepped into the hackney cab a footman had called to the house for her. She and Windermere were attending a dinner and musical evening at Lady Augusta’s that night and Jassie couldn’t help but wonder if she was capable of containing this secret or the incredible happiness that filled her because of it.
Windermere was waiting in the hall when Jassie came downstairs, the light from the chandelier highlighting strands of silver in the dark sheen of his hair. He was reading the cards and invitations that had been left by callers during the day and as she watched his jaw clenched, a frown settled on his brow and agitated fingers suddenly ploughed through the perfect arrangement of his hair. Now he looked like her Rogan and less like the perfect example of an Earl.
‘What is bothering you?’ Jassie asked as she crossed the expanse of floor to where he stood at the hallstand. The subtle hint of a spicy cologne and an underlying scent that was essentially Windermere teased Jassie’s senses, tempting her to reach out and touch the tensing jaw-line. She clasped one hand firmly within the other. They were going out together. She would be content with that.
‘Are you expecting we’ll attend all of these affairs?’
He sounded as if she was asking him to step into a den of hungry lions. Though there were times such a description would apply to society events, she thought wryly.
‘Not at all,’ Jassie responded, taking the pile of cards from him and quickly sifting
through them. ‘Pick a couple you think you might be able to tolerate and I’ll send apologies to the rest. I intend to return to Windermere as soon as I have things properly in train with La Callista. I feel bad about leaving all the arrangements for the house party to Mama and Fran. Our gowns can be posted down to Windermere when they’re ready.’
The dark frown cleared from Windermere’s brow and his features relaxed into an almost smile. Jassie wished she knew whether that was because she’d let him off the social hook or because she was returning to Windermere. She very much feared it was the latter.
‘Are we ready then?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
Deacon appeared to open the door and see them down the stairs and into the carriage. Rogan’s gloved hand was firm beneath her elbow as she stepped up and slid onto the leather seat. The heated imprint of it remained long after she’d arranged her skirts and he’d settled himself across from her—as far away from her as the confines of the carriage would allow.
Jassie tightened her lips but couldn’t maintain her displeasure for long. She was still shimmering internally with delight from the disclosures of the day and now, as they travelled confined alone together, was the perfect time to relate them to her husband.
He was only a dark outline in the gloom of the interior but she could feel the tension flowing from him as no doubt, he was remembering the last time they were alone together in the carriage. Her cheeks burned and she was grateful for the concealment of the darkness. He was sitting so straight and rigid, every inch the haughty aristocrat that he was. Did he think he could hold her at bay by pretending a cold, autocratic demeanor?
A smile curved her lips, the same smile she’d been trying to suppress since leaving Half Moon Street, as she considered how best to shock him out of his determinedly stiff aloofness.
‘I visited a house of ill repute today, a very exclusive house of ill repute but—a brothel nevertheless.’
If anything, Windermere’s posture became even more rigid but his eyes glittered through the darkness at her.
‘Why?’
If she were not so filled with happiness and outright delight she might have felt the harsh staccato question like a gunshot to her chest. But she was inured to all shafts and arrows tonight. Her smile widened as it had wanted to ever since leaving her aunt’s house that afternoon—her aunt’s house.
‘I went to seek help for—us.’
Ignoring the choked sound from the opposite seat, she continued, ‘and I found so much more than I was looking for! Rogan, did you know my mother had a twin sister?’
His mouth, which had hung open for a moment, snapped shut then opened again to utter one syllable.
‘No.’
‘Well she did—and the reason we’ve never heard of her is because she’s the Madame of a brothel, Madame Lady Bouvier to be exact.’
Windermere suddenly sat forward with his arms across his knees, his gaze intent.
‘Madame Lady Bouvier? Good God! I should’ve seen that for myself. The likeness is uncanny. I’d even wondered at it when I met her once.—So that’s why happiness is shimmering around you like starlight? You’ve found a relative!’
Only Rogan, who knew her so well, would glide effortlessly over the potential drama of finding such a relative to the essential heart of the matter for Jassie. Whoever the woman was, she was family and to one without family it was like stumbling upon a rich vein of gold.
She just nodded—and beamed.
Windermere’s teeth gleamed white as he grinned back at her for a brief moment then all too soon his happiness for her was gone and he was pressing his shoulders back against the seat and glaring at her through the gloom.
‘You know you can never acknowledge her or be seen with her. The likeness is quite obvious now you point it out. And—’
Suddenly his whole body stiffened and she could feel the waves of tension flowing off him.
‘—what the devil were you thinking to visit such a place?’
‘Clearly you have visited or you’d not know the lady I speak of! She told me she rarely goes out socially anymore.—Dear God, Rogan! Have you—slept—with my aunt?’
It struck her as odd that the thought had the power to chill her bones when the lurid story Rogan had revealed to her in the Greek Folly at Windermere had merely made her heart ache for him.
‘Your aunt is a little old for me and has not plied her trade in a good while, I believe. She leaves that to her ‘ladies’. But you haven’t answered my question as to why you went if you didn’t already know she was your aunt?’
‘Why did you visit her if you didn’t know she was my aunt?’
She wished she could see him more clearly to gauge his reactions. But his voice, when it snapped back at her, was indication enough.
‘I’m a man. I need no other reason to visit a brothel.—Why?’
Feeling her temper rising, Jassie sucked down a few breaths.
‘I told you. I hoped she might have some advice for me—for us. Apparently she has a reputation for helping people with problems of a—um—intimate—nature.’
‘I see.—And did she?’
She wasn’t about to tell him Belle had advised that her most likely asset in luring Windermere was her innocence; that a man enjoyed knowing he was the one to teach her how to please him—and she was very conscious that she was not pleasing him at all at this moment. Waves of cold fury were rolling towards her from the other side of the carriage.
‘Rogan, Aunt Isabelle knows a lot about such things and is happy to share her knowledge with those in need. If you would just go and talk with her she said she may be able to offer some suggestions.’
Silence. The air in the carriage was almost at freezing point and Jassie knew that pulling her velvet evening cloak closer about her shoulders would make little difference. She’d never felt so distanced from Windermere and the chill was causing her heart to stutter in panic.
‘You-told-her-about-me?’
She couldn’t deny it, no matter the terror induced by the ugly, alien tone of his voice.
‘Yes.’
There was no response. His silhouette seemed to darken and become one with the shadows that filled the carriage. Jassie had run out of bravado. She’d hurt him beyond redemption this time, betrayed his trust in her. Maybe she’d not actually promised to keep his story safe in her heart but in trusting her with it she knew that had been implied. But she couldn’t see how suppressing it was going to help either of them. And her decision to take control of her life—their lives—had not wavered. In fact, once she’d taken that first irrevocable step it was as if the changes had taken on a momentum of their own.
She could not, would not, go back to being that unawakened, miserable woman she’d been for the last nine years. They could not go back so they must go forward. And allowing the present impasse to stand was unthinkable. She would face whatever he threw at her but she had to keep seeking a way forward.
He didn’t speak as he helped her from the carriage, nor as they sat opposite one another at Lady Augusta’s table, although he chatted quite readily with Miss Cobden-Smythe who sat to his right and Lord Presterton on his left. Nor did he speak as they left the house and re-entered the carriage at the end of the evening, except to issue terse orders to the coachman to drop himself at White’s and to ‘see Her Ladyship home.’
She didn’t see him again until the night of the 10th of August at Windermere Abbey.
Life had blown up in his face. Spectacularly—like a science experiment botched on a cosmic scale. In the space of a little more than three months he’d broken his vow never to marry; he’d broken his vow never to talk of the shameful liaison of his youth that had made him the man he was; and he’d broken his vow never to subject Jassie to his brand of loving, which could more properly be called abuse. Add to that the Ministry’s refusal to send him on any more missions where he might die an honorable death and what did he have left?
A bloody mess!
And if he wanted to be picky he could lay the blame for all of it at Jassie’s feet; at the dainty, sexy feet of his wife.
And in trying to escape from the ugly, emotional tangle of it all and trying to escape from her, he’d been spending day after day, night after night in gambling dens and flash houses, losing an unconscionable amount of money and risking a very dishonorable sort of death indeed.
He’d finally, as he’d often feared he would, given in to the kind of desperation that could steal a man’s sanity—and his soul. Wolverton had tracked him down once again last night and hauled him out of the back room of some dingy gin parlor where he was on the verge of throwing a punch at the dodgy cove who’d come late into the game, swept the pot clean and then had the gall to leave the table without giving the rest of them the chance to win it back.
Dom had practically tossed him in the front door of Windermere House with instructions to his butler not to let him out again. He’d passed out in his study where he’d sat and sullenly drowned what was left of his consciousness in very expensive brandy.
And he felt like shit. He wished he’d brought Bart up to London after all so he’d have someone to abuse, or someone to abuse him, which was probably what he really required.
He took inventory. Sprawled on the leather couch in his study, he was still fully dressed, even to his boots. The only thing he’d removed was his neck cloth which was still draped around his neck, its ends dangling like a scarf.
The crystal brandy decanter lay on its side on the carpet, empty, though there didn’t seem to be any spillage. Where was his glass? Had he been drinking straight from the bottle? Come to think of it, he smelled like brandy. Probably accounted for the dark stain down the front of his sadly wrinkled shirt.
Disgusted with himself, he struggled to sit upright and fell back, groaning with the agony of the hammers in his head.
A knock on the door heralded Deacon, his long face expressionless as always. Rogan couldn’t help wondering what it would take to make his stoic butler lose his reserve and show emotion. The man would be formidable at poker!
