Ripe for Pleasure

by Isobel Carr

  “Travel? But—”

  “Whatever the truth of the matter”—the duchess cut her off, eyes flintier than ever—“am I safe to assume that whoever did do that to your pretty face has been dealt with?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, but really—”

  “Should the duke and I be making plans to save our son from the gallows?”

  “I don’t know, Your Grace. I don’t think so.” Panic set her pulse racing. How did you prevent a woman with such knowing eyes from stripping the flesh from your bones until she knew every secret you’d ever had? It felt as though the knowledge of what Leo had done, and why he’d done it, was writ across her face as clearly as the bruises his cousin had put there.

  “Very well, keep your secrets. I’d have bet the ducal rubies that no child of mine was fool enough to dawdle here in England if he had reason to flee, but I hadn’t thought to add you to the equation.”

  “And now that you have?”

  The duchess smiled, and a shiver traced its way up Viola’s spine. This was not a woman to tangle with, and she was very, very angry behind that placid demeanor. “Well, my dear Mrs. Whedon, now that I have, I find I need to know more before I can draw any conclusions.”

  “Hence my abduction?”

  “If you choose to call it that, so be it.” The duchess shrugged, eyes continuing to dissect her with unnerving directness. “Let us simply say that I desire to make your acquaintance.”

  “My acquaintance? Let us lay our cards on the table, Your Grace. You desire that I should remove myself from your son’s protection, possibly from England entirely. Correct?”

  “Not exactly, my dear. Though it may come to that in the end.”

  • • •

  Pilcher met Leo at the door with a pained look on his craggy face. He seemed to have shrunk beneath his wig, like a snail withdrawing into its shell. A howl erupted from behind the closed doors of the sitting room.

  Leo threw his butler a wary look and strode down the corridor. Inside the sitting room, he found Pen guarding a damp copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine. The note he’d left tucked between its pages had run and blurred under the influence of the dog’s drool, and the cover was sadly mangled.

  He set the magazine on the table and glanced around the room. Nothing else seemed amiss. He headed back to the hall, Pen at his heels, whining.

  “Pilcher, have you seen Mrs. Whedon today?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Leo studied his butler, noting his evasive eyes and the hunch of his shoulders. He stood as though he expected a beating. “Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

  The man swallowed hard, darting a quick glance upward to meet his eye before ducking his head again. “She said I wasn’t to give you the note until dinner, my lord.”

  The bottom fell out of Leo’s world. The checkerboard of the hall floor spun before righting itself. She’d left him. Just like that. Snuck off the first time his back was turned.

  Pen circled, her whine rising into an extended grumbling harangue. Leo’s pulse settled. Pen was here. Viola would never have left Dyrham without her dog. Never.

  He took a deep breath and watched his butler shift uneasily from one foot to the other, hands fretting about his pockets like a pensioner searching for his tobacco pouch.

  Leo shackled his temper and held out his hand. Yelling at Pilcher wasn’t going to help things. The man looked fagged to death, like he’d been pursued by harpies. After a bit more searching, Pilcher produced a folded piece of foolscap sealed with a large blob of red wax, an all-too-familiar image sunk deeply into it.

  Not harpies, Hera. The avenging mother. Leo gave him a sympathetic glance. The poor man. No wonder he looked as though he’d been sucked dry. Her Grace tended to have that effect on people when she was on the march. She’d been wasted as a peeress. If she’d been in charge of Horse Guards, the American colonies would never have been lost.

  His gut twisted as he broke the seal. The idea of a confrontation between his mother and Viola was horrifying. Nothing good could come of it, and neither was likely to break or give ground. It would be a battle royale.

  His mother’s command, for he could hardly call what she’d written anything else, was clear and to the point: She’d take Viola to the family seat in Scotland; he was not to show his face for a fortnight. Then, and only then, he would find out what she and Mrs. Whedon had worked out between them.

  Oh, there were plenty of pithy comments about his intelligence, his morals, and his duty to his name scrawled across the page as well, with an added soupçon of guilt for involving poor Beau in his sordid doings and leaving her to explain the gossip swirling about them all. There were also several dire threats involved were he to disobey her.

  Leo barked out an order for a bag to be packed and a fresh horse saddled, then he returned to his letter. Poor Beau indeed. This must be the first time that their mother had styled her so. Beau would be livid when he showed it to her, if he didn’t throttle her instead.

  Damn interfering little brat. Why couldn’t she have kept her mouth shut? The sound of a carriage brought his head up. His mother had returned. That didn’t bode well. He’d be lucky if one of them hadn’t drawn blood.

  How exactly did one tell one’s mother to shove off?

  Leo stepped out onto the porch, prepared to retrieve Viola from his mother no matter what the cost. He wanted some magical path to family harmony to appear, but he knew—bone deep and impossible to deny—that Viola was more important than his mother’s opinion or consent.

  He stopped dead in his tracks as he stared at what appeared to be a rented conveyance. A mismatched team was harnessed to a coach with faded, peeling wheels. The door sprung open, and his sister came tumbling out, looking half wild.

  “Leo! Mother, she’s—I’m sorry—it’s not my fault—I swear to you.”

  He blinked, his brain refusing to process the scene before him or his sister’s disjointed attempts at explanation. Beau latched on to him like a dying sailor finding the last spar of a shipwreck. “Please, Leo. Pay these men. Then come inside and let me explain.”

  “You have no idea what the past week has been like,” Beau began. “Don’t you dare yell at me. It’s all over town. You and Mrs. Whedon, various horrible rumors about the two of you, about a fight, a duel. Some people are saying you murdered her. Mother’s enraged. Augusta—”

  “There’s no reason to tell me about our brother’s wife’s reaction. I can well imagine.” And he could. Augusta always did make bad worse.

  “And to add to it, Charles sent a letter that made Mother angrier than I’ve ever seen her. I’ve never actually been afraid of her before; I always thought people were being silly or overly dramatic when they said they feared to cross her. She smashed the Ming vase in the hall and burnt the letter. Then she abandoned me to Augusta.”

  Leo nearly chuckled at the intense sense of outrage and loathing her tone conveyed. Whatever calamity had occurred in the world, nothing could make Beau accept with equanimity being left in the charge of their sister-in-law.

  The anger bubbling below his skin began to cool, even as his concern grew. “Do you know what was in Charles’s missive?”

  Beau shook her head, lower lip caught between her teeth, brow furrowed. “Whatever it was, I don’t think it quite served its purpose. She was muttering something about killing him herself before she’d even finished reading it.”

  The door opened, and Pilcher, somewhat restored in appearance, announced that Leo’s horse was saddled and ready. Leo nodded, then laughed at the indignant expression on his sister’s face.

  “Pilcher, send the horse back to the stable and have them bring the carriage round. Lady Boudicea will be accompanying me.”

  Beau leapt up, eyes still damp, but smiling. “I promise you won’t regret it, Leo.”

  Leo laughed and shook his head. His mother had kidnapped his mistress, and he was about to go in pursuit with his sister in tow. An evil thought occurred to him. It was
no more than Beau deserved. “Don’t thank me yet, brat. You’ve yet to see your traveling companion.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Two days gone by and still no Leo. Viola sank farther into the seat of his mother’s coach and tried to sleep. The duchess pushed late each night, stopping only for a few scant hours to rest, and then they were back on the road, moving steadily north.

  What should have been a five- or six-day trip had been shrunk nearly by half. But at every stop, Viola still fully expected to see Leo. Still hoped to see him. Surely a man on horseback could catch a coach, no matter how swiftly it traveled? Surely Leo wasn’t going to abandon her to his mother?

  She’d been unable to ascertain exactly what the duchess’s purpose was in bundling her off to Scotland. She had barely spoken to her once she’d made certain that her son had not been responsible for the beating, and that neither his arrest nor his hanging was imminent.

  It was dark outside now, but the nearly full moon provided enough light for Viola to see the duchess fiddling with the buttons on the cuff of her coat. When Leo’s mother had instructed her coachman to change the horses and push on at dusk, Viola’s heart had sunk a little more.

  “Tell me about your family.” The question floated out of the dark, almost too soft to hear. It was the first thing the duchess had said to her all day. She’d been brooding silently, staring out the window, or sometimes at Viola, as though searching for the answer to some riddle in her face.

  “There’s nothing to tell, Your Grace.”

  “Bah.” The older woman leaned forward, her gaze holding Viola’s in the dim interior of the coach. “You didn’t spring from the ground like a mushroom, and whoever your first protector was, I doubt he found you in a brothel in Covent Garden. A pretty milkmaid you’re not.”

  A smile tugged at Viola’s mouth. Her first protector had found her beside his best friend’s grave, destitute and heartbroken. And he hadn’t really meant to make her his mistress. It had just turned out that way. But she wasn’t about to tell Her Grace that story.

  “I eloped when I was fifteen, and my family cast me off, so I have no family. It’s as simple as that.”

  “And the man?”

  “He died.”

  “Ah, well…” For a moment the duchess seemed very far away, then she let her breath out and smoothed her hair back from her face in a gesture very like her son’s when he was anxious. “You know I eloped with Leo’s father?”

  Viola nodded. Everyone knew that. It had been a grand enough scandal in its day that it was still whispered about whenever the topic of the mad Vaughns came up. One of many examples of outrageous behavior in a family history that stretched back for centuries.

  “I rather imagine being an heiress made your decision to do so a bit more forgivable than mine.”

  “Not at all. It simply means that had he died, I wouldn’t have been left with no choices in life and even fewer friends.”

  Viola laughed, unable not to do so. The duchess had the truth of it, and she wasn’t too mealymouthed to admit it. “I was left with one friend.”

  “And he made you his mistress.”

  Viola sighed and shook her head. “Not at first. But being already married himself, it was all he could offer in the end: entrée into a world I hadn’t even really known existed, a way to avoid the workhouse or something worse, a means to start over.”

  Leo’s mother nodded thoughtfully, one hand twisting the long curl that hung over her shoulder. “A family might be very forgiving if the prodigal returned married to the son of a duke.”

  “Are you offering me a path to forgiveness or a chance to lord my newfound place in the world over them?”

  It was the duchess’s turn to smile. The first genuine smile Viola had seen. Her lips curled at the corners like those of a little girl. “Whichever you would like, but my real point is that no matter what you say now about having been cast off, they’re likely to turn up when they get wind of your new station in life.”

  “Putting aside the fact that I’ve no intention of taking up a new station”—Viola ground her teeth as the duchess blinked innocently at her and forged on, refusing to be beguiled or bamboozled—“you want to know if you would be embarrassed by them? More embarrassed than having a grand whore for a daughter-in-law in the first place? Doubtful, Your Grace. Very doubtful. Unless you’ve an abhorrence for vicars and cadet branches of ancient baronial bloodlines. No? Well, I certainly have.”

  The duchess nodded noncommittally, and Viola sighed. “My family’s presentable,” she summed up, “but not tonnish. The problem here is that I’ve no wish to be redeemed.”

  “Then we do have a problem, Mrs. Whedon. A prime scandal is more than I can ask for from Glennalmond, and I’d not wish it for Beau—so much harder on the girls, unfair as that is—which leaves only poor Leo to kick up a dust in true Vaughn fashion and make his ancestors proud.”

  “Living with his mistress at Dyrham isn’t scandal enough?”

  “For you and me, most certainly. For Leonidas?” The duchess shook her head. “I must quote you back to yourself: doubtful. He was never a boy to do things by halves. And that’s what you’re offering him: half a life, a partial commitment, paste in place of a diamond.”

  Viola’s throat tightened and her eyes burned. “I’m offering him what I can.”

  “No, you’re offering him what’s safe. And that won’t do. Not for Leo. I let Glennalmond settle for a socially grand match with a woman I don’t think he gives a fig about, but I’ll be damned if either of my other children do so.”

  “I think you’re mad, Your Grace.” It was the only conclusion. It wasn’t simply a rumor. His entire family was unhinged. “To help your son to such a match. To even countenance, let along promote it…”

  The duchess smiled again. “I haven’t yet agreed to help my son to anything. I could be wrong, you see. I could be wrong about you, about him. His sister thinks he loves you. I’m not so sure. And I’ve no idea at all about your finer feelings, and no real right to ask.”

  “But you’re going to.”

  The duchess shook her head, her expression clearly saying that Viola was a simpleton. “No, I won’t believe you whatever you say. How could I?”

  “Then why all this?”

  “Because there’s no other way. His grandfather left him Dyrham for a reason. To anchor him, to offer him something most younger sons lack, a sense of purpose, of belonging.”

  “And you think he needs a wife.”

  “I know he needs one. What I don’t know is if he needs you to be that wife, or if you’re simply an alluring distraction.”

  “So this is a test. How do you know I’ve passed?”

  The duchess smiled again. “I’ll know when my son arrives. I’ve been expecting him since we set out, and I’m extremely put out that so far he’s failed to live up to expectations.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing, Your Grace. And that was not an admission of love.”

  The duchess’s smile grew, and her eyes crinkled up. “Not on your part, I agree. But do you expect me to believe that you think he’d ride hell-for-leather after you, against my strict orders, simply for lust?”

  Viola ground her teeth, trapped in the duchess’s labyrinthine logic. She hadn’t admitted she loved him, but she’d certainly confirmed for his mother that she believed he loved her.

  “We’re never going to catch them.”

  Leo glanced at his sister over the rim of his mug. He swallowed and set his ale down on the table. Beau was ripping a bun into pieces and feeding them to Pen with a look of angry resignation on her face.

  “That was a foregone conclusion as soon as I agreed to the coach.” He tossed the drooling mastiff an entire bun, then bit into one himself. They were filled with minced fruit and nuts and still warm from the oven. He chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. “Mrs. Whedon’s safe enough with Mother, or from Mother, I should say. It’s Charles I’m worried about.”

  Beau’s head s
napped up, her eyes meeting his with a flash of anger followed by a shimmer of tears. She blinked them away, and her expression hardened. “If he shows up, I’ll shoot him myself.”

  “I don’t see him being so bold. I think whatever he told mother, it was designed to put me in her black books and Mrs. Whedon in her sights. He’s expecting Mother to do his dirty work for him.”

  “What do you think was in that letter?”

  Pen nudged his knee insistently, and Leo tossed her another bun. “Something along the lines of my attacking him because he and my mistress had fallen in love. Maybe he and I fought a duel over my treatment of her. Maybe he tried to defend her and I attacked him out of hand. Whatever it was, you can be sure it flirted with the truth just enough to make Mother wonder…”

  “With what truth?” Her eyes were wary again, as though she didn’t really want to know.

  “With the truth that I shot him. And that I did it over Mrs. Whedon. He’d want to be avenged for that before all else.”

  Beau nodded. “And the rumors of Mrs. Whedon having been badly beaten?”

  “Also true.”

  “But not by you.” Revulsion crawled across her face. “Charles can’t be fool enough to think that Mother would ever believe such a story.”

  Leo shook his head. “He was fool enough to believe he could abandon you to whatever fate you met at Vauxhall without repercussions. Do you think if Mother knew about that betrayal he’d still be walking this earth?”

  “She does know.”

  Leo raised one brow. He hadn’t thought Beau could surprise him anymore. “And what was her response?”

  “That she owed Mrs. Whedon her thanks. I told her when the rumors first started a few weeks ago. I thought it might help calm Mother down. The story about Mrs. Whedon helping me, I mean.”

  “And did it?”

  Beau shook her head ruefully.

  Leo grimaced. It wouldn’t have. The duchess didn’t like loose ends or unpaid debts, and she wasn’t a fan of the theory that revenge was a dish best served cold. She was a woman of action. She’d analyze the situation and do what she deemed necessary to bring about a desirable conclusion.