She must think only of Davenham’s parting gift, undoubtedly something sparkling and very valuable that would go a long way toward ensuring her comfortable retirement. But even visions of diamonds did not work. She would miss him. He was so handsome, so elegant, so full of life. A kind man, giving of himself as well as the objects his deep pockets could buy.
Harlan Dawnay, Lord Davenham. Ryl’s lips quivered. Ruthlessly, she repressed a tear. Sentiment was a luxury a courtesan could not afford. By dint of extremely hard work—not all of it beneath the sheets—she had raised herself from innkeeper’s daughter to a London townhouse and the ability to dress and speak as well as any member of the ton. Better than some, she amended with determined pride. She deserved to shine. And when her days as a courtesan were done, would there be something more than a pot of gold at the end of her personal rainbow?
Ryl picked at her ivory skirt. So very virginal. Who had she been trying to fool?
Only herself.
A woman was granted only one Harlan Dawnay in a lifetime. Surely.
May I recommend my friend, Baron Southwaite?
The minx, the naughty little minx. La Grande LeFay was not going to heed advice from Harlan’s infant wife! And yet . . .
Perhaps she would drive in the park tomorrow at the fashionable hour. See . . . and be seen. It had been a number of years since admirers had last scattered rose petals at her feet . . . Even though she was alone, Ryl snapped open her fan to hide her face. She had been wearing little or nothing at the time, as she recalled. And Southwaite—yes, she was nearly certain it was he—Southwaite had stood back, quizzing glass raised, and watched the entire scene. At one point he had lowered the glass, his gaze fixed with hers, and she had thought . . . oh, yes, she had thought he would make her an offer of carte blanche. Her heart had thudded with excitement—she had caught the interest of the most notorious, yet discerning, rake in London.
But he was only a new-made baron, and a duke had come along. What was a girl to do?
Ryl sighed. Would her figure bear an encore performance? A private performance?
Miss Amaryllis LeFay sprang off her couch and headed for the stairs. Her tall cheval glass would reveal all.
When Lord Davenham caught up with his wife nearly an hour later, after causing a flutter at events in three prior stately London townhouses, she was bouncing her way through The Comical Fellow, clapping her hands and smiling up at her partner as if she had not a care in the world. Only years of strict training kept Harlan from snatching her straight out of the line and dragging her off the floor. He gnashed his teeth while the orchestra launched with scarcely a pause into The Happy Captive. Happy Captive indeed! His Sal was going to be anything but by the time he was through with her.
Devil a bit, the minx was waving at him! A quick finger-waggle as she executed a back to back with her partner. Had she no idea what she had done? No qualm of conscience that her behavior had thrust her beyond the Pale? Calling on his mistress! Harlan groaned, stepped back against a fine Corinthian column, and glared. By the time the final country dance was finished, it was doubtful there was a single person in the ballroom who had not noted that Lord Davenham had arrived and was in a fury with his wife.
Fans unfurled on dowagers’ row. Matrons smirked, while young maidens tittered. The gentlemen, viewing the situation from an entirely different perspective, merely shook their heads, thankful that this time the trouble was someone else’s. As Adrian Chumley, who had been Lady Davenham’s partner for the set of country dances, escorted her to her husband’s side, Sarah’s gaiety faded. Before her was Trouble.
Betrayed! She had actually, though reluctantly, liked Amaryllis LeFay, and yet the elegant courtesan had proved to have the soul of a harlot. Discretion, hah!
For it had to be that. Nothing but certain knowledge of her visit to his mistress would make Harlan glower so. Sarah felt ill. Her intentions had been good, truly they had.
“Goodnight, Chumley,” the viscount snarled. Sarah’s cowardly dance partner moved off with such alacrity that he was swallowed in the crowd before she could protest his desertion. If only it had been Geoffrey . . . “Come along,” Davenham said, taking her arm, “we are leaving.”
“You are creating a scene,” Sarah hissed as she struggled to keep up with his remarkably swift maneuvers through the swarms of people milling about while the orchestra took a short rest.
“How unfortunate.”
“I have not made my adieus to Lady Blassington.”
“You may call upon her tomorrow. Say you were taken with an indisposition.”
“Davenham!”
The footman was swinging open the front door. Sarah could not think of a single word she might say that would not be repeated to all Mayfair on the morrow. She was down the steps and being boosted into Harlan’s curricle before she protested, with only Davenham’s groom to hear, “My carriage! John Coachman will think me taken up by kidnappers when I do not appear.”
“Jed,” Harlan ordered, “find John Coachman and tell him what has occurred.”
“Likely ’e’s ‘avin’ a heavy wet at this hour, m’lord.”
“Then have some yourself,” Harlan said, flipping his groom a coin.
“Aye, thank’ee, m’lord.” Jed flashed a grin, setting off for the nearest tavern, where he would likely find the Davenham coachman enjoying his hours of waiting by indulging in a pint or two of landlord’s finest ale.
A shiver shook Sarah, though she doubted it was the result of the damp evening air. Her husband, who had been about to give the horses the office to start, lowered the reins, shrugged out of his jacket, and draped it around her shoulders. It was redolent with the warmth of his body, the subtle, delightful smell of him. Their days in Brighton flooded her mind—the moment when, heedless of the perfection of his wool jacket by Weston, he had used it to cover her miserably wet and shivering self.
They traveled to Margaret Street in silence, with Sarah clutching Harlan’s coat around her as if her life depended on it. Surely, he could not be so frightfully angry if he had cared enough to give her his jacket.
He was a gentleman of the first stare, Sarah reminded herself. Top of the trees, as the saying went. Harlan Dawnay would give his jacket to any lady he thought to be in need. Even his naughty infant bride.
Is that what he really thought of her—when he thought of her at all? Harlan had never actually used the word invisible when they made their infamous bargain, but it had not taken long to deduce that that was what he wanted. Out of sight, out of mind. Mumchance as a mouse. A feather floating on the wind, not a pebble dropped into a pond, causing ripples to flow outward in ever-widening circles. A silent trophy to be displayed on call, not a laughing baggage who flirted with Wicked Barons and sponsored Cits of doubtful parentage. A properly brought up young lady of the ton, trained to turn a blind eye to her husband’s peccadillos, not an outrageous chit who called on his mistress . . .
They were home. In spite of the warmth of Harlan’s coat, Sarah’s blood had turned to ice. She could not move. No matter. While the horses stood patiently, aware their long day was nearly over, Lord Davenham swung her down with ease. “I must go round to the mews,” he told her. “Change into something more comfortable. I will come to you in half an hour.”
Sarah climbed the stairs to her doom, hauling herself along with one hand on the banister, fifty years added to her step by her husband’s threat. She was nearly at the top when she stopped quite suddenly, frowning into the barely lit gloom of the landing and the corridor beyond. What had she done wrong, pray tell? It was Harlan who had a mistress. Harlan who had not wished to be married. Harlan who was ignoring his wedding vows. And neglecting his wife.
Harlan who had insisted on their ridiculous agreement. They had both known, that day in the Blue Salon at Rotherwick House, that he was only interested in his own comfort, his own gratification. In continuing to enjoy the life he had known for all of his ten years on the town.
And she had wan
ted him so badly, she had thrown pride to the winds and accepted his devil’s bargain.
There, she had admitted it! She adored him and could not bear his indifference, even though honor dictated that she must. So she had cheated, yes, she had. She had made it impossible for Harlan to ignore her. Not that she had flirted with Mr. Wendell; truly, she had not. At least she did not think so. And never had she anticipated being taken up by Bow Street. But Harlan’s solicitude after the episode on the beach at Brighton had pointed the way. He was reliable. When disaster struck, he came running, as a true gentleman should.
And now . . . ?
She had perhaps overdone it when she visited Amaryllis LeFay, but her curiosity had been so great , any excuse would have done. And she had been touched by the plight of the women in Bow Street. She would find a way to do what she could, even if Miss LeFay’s sharp warning had made her realize just how far out of her depth she had ventured. And now Harlan would scold when there was so need, because she had already learned her lesson . . .
Sarah caught the gleam in Finella’s eyes as she helped her into one of the bridal ensembles chosen by Lady Rotherwick. A frothy pale pink that had remained safely hidden in Lady Davenham’s drawer. “You may go,” she told her maid, even as she blushed until her skin was a deeper shade than the dressing gown. Finella left, but not before tossing a cheeky grin over her shoulder.
Very well, she was armed and ready. Let Davenham come.
Stomp, stomp! The leather soles of Harlan’s black velvet slippers echoed hollowly on the narrow staircase. Idiot infant! Stomp! Featherbrained fool! Stomp! Visit his mistress, would she? Get taken up by Bow Street, attacked by a maniac painter. Stomp! Flirting with one of the ton’s most notorious rakes, a man old enough to be her father! Stomp! Vulgar Cits. Making a spectacle of herself in Hyde Park. Half-drowned on the beach at Brighton. Stomp, stomp!
Lord Davenham threw open the door at the head of the staircase and stalked into his wife’s bedchamber, a torrent of words ready to spill from his lips.
And there she lay, displayed on top of her bedcovers in little more than skin. Good God! Harlan gulped, stared. His temper, hanging by a thread, snapped. He stalked to the bed, tugged off his black satin robe, and hurled it at her. “Cover yourself!” he barked. “You are a conniving, scheming, manipulating little jezebel. Let me assure you that if you think to seduce me out of my temper, you are fair and far out. “Put it on. Now!”
Great pools of blue-green stared at him in shock before Sarah clutched the black satin to her, pulling it up to her neck. Well, devil a bit, she’d probably never seen a man in his nightshirt before. How would she look if he took that off too? Serve her right . . . give her an idea of just what she might face if she continued her association with women of the streets.
“You may have addled Southwaite’s wits, but you’ll not do the same to me,” Harlan declared, judiciously keeping a few feet between himself and the edge of his wife’s bed. “You’ll not wrap me round your thumb quite so easily, my girl. In truth, looking back, I almost begin to feel sorry for Wendell. I daresay the poor man could not help himself—”
“But, truly, I never—” A slicing jerk of her husband’s hand and Sarah’s mouth snapped closed.
“I will talk. You will listen,” Davenham declared. If he had any thought that delivering a scold in tousled hair and a nightshirt was perhaps not the most effective image, he gave no sign of it. “Your mother is one of the beau monde’s grande dames, a lady of the first quality. How she can have failed to impress upon you the most basic tenets of behavior I cannot understand, but to jaunt off on a visit to Miss LeFay is so far beyond acceptable limits that I still can scarce believe it. What were you thinking?”
“I wished her help,” his wife replied, sticking her blasted chin in the air and attempting to imitate Joan of Arc.
“Her help. Ah, yes, this quite incredible scheme to rescue harlots. Amazing, my dear, truly amazing.”
“Country girls, not harlots,” Sarah retorted. “I wished to know if the stories were true that some women earn their bread by lurking at coaching houses and luring girls fresh up from the country into lives of prostitution.”
“And precisely what did you plan to do about it?” Davenham inquired in ominous accents.
“I . . . I was going to go see for myself,” Sarah responded stubbornly, “hoping that some solution to the problem might present itself.”
“And it did not occur to you that you yourself are exactly the morsel jaded gentlemen of the ton would pay their last guinea to possess?”
Sarah’s chin moved higher yet. “I admit I had not thought that far, but when Miss LeFay pointed it out, I realized she was right. This scold is meaningless, Davenham. I am aware I can do nothing until I am older and more experienced in the ways of the world.” Sarah paused, looking thoughtful. “What you said . . . does that mean you are not a jaded gentleman?” she added, her delicate brow wrinkling into a frown.
“I beg your pardon.” Harlan paused, considering the last few moments of their exchange. Hell’s hounds, he had dug himself into a hole. “Certainly not!” he snapped. “I believe I have made it quite clear I have no interest in the infantry.”
“My dear friend, Mary Dabney, is a month younger than I and already a mother!”
The incongruity of the scene finally struck him. He was wearing nothing but his nightshirt and slippers in his wife’s bedroom in the wee hours of the morning. Beneath the black satin of his dressing gown, she was wearing next to nothing at all, and they were fighting over whores. And not even over his indulgence in their services. His little Sal had dismissed his attachment to Ryl as if it did not matter. Fiery hell, what was happening here? Who was the numbskull now?
“Sal?”
“Go away. You are despicable, Davenham. You discussed me with your mistress—”
“Ryl told me your plans only because she feared for your safety.”
“That may be so,” Sarah replied with prim dignity, “but I find I cannot like it. You demanded an infernal bargain and I was fool enough to acquiesce, so perhaps I should plead guilty to being as featherbrained as you think me. And yet none can deny you keep a house in Newburgh Place for your mistress that is better appointed than the one in which you house your wife. Or that you chose this house where your bedchamber is not even on the same floor.
“Or that you notice me only when I am naughty,” Sarah added so softly he almost didn’t hear her. Her head came up. She glared straight into his eyes. “You never wanted me. I was your last desperate choice. Yet still I thought . . . I hoped our arrangement might work. Obviously, it has not. And I am honor-bound to admit the fault is mine. For, you see, I wished to be married. I wanted my own home, a husband, children. I wanted to establish my place in the world. Instead, I have careened along, upsetting the applecart at every turn. I am a sad excuse for a wife . . . but it seems you are stuck with me. And I with you.”
Sarah gulped a breath, continued inexorably on. “At the moment it seems as if the hurt will never end, but I am not the skitterbrain you think me, Davenham. I know this will pass. Perhaps—someday—we may even be comfortable with each other. But not now. Not tonight. I wish you to go.”
Harlan rubbed his forehead, pressing his fingers hard into his flesh, as if to wipe away the heated words that stuck there. Words he wished unsaid. Words he hoped his wife wished unsaid. “Of course, Sal,” he murmured. “Good-night.”
The staircase door clicked closed. Sarah buried her face in her husband’s black satin dressing gown, breathed in his fragrance, and burst into tears, stifling her sobs in the heavy fabric. Her mind whirled in useless circles, with nothing but time presenting itself as a solution. And yet . . . if she had not been able to tolerate a few short weeks of life on her husband’s terms, how could she possibly survive the months or years it might take before he saw her as a wife?
Lady Davenham was still clutching her husband’s dressing gown, while tossing, turning, and pounding her pillow, whe
n dawn lightened her chamber.
Chapter Nineteen
Sarah swam up out of a sleep of exhaustion, instantly aware of a sense of dread, if not yet clear on all the nasty details of her latest quarrel with Harlan. She groped for her pendant watch, squinted at the time. Nearly noon. With a groan, she burrowed back under the covers. By now half the ton would know about Harlan dragging her out of the Blassington’s ball. How could she face them?
How could she face him?
She was the infant wife who had paid a call on her husband’s mistress.
Horrors!
Gradually, Sarah became aware of rain pounding down outside, overflowing the drains, waterfalling past her windows. A perfectly miserable day, in keeping with how she felt. She squeezed her eyes shut, pulled the coverlet up over her head. Yet in less than five minutes the Ainsworth chin jutted up, her lower lip out; she scowled and forced the swirling gloom and doom in her head to a halt. The rain was sufficient excuse to stay home. She needn’t see a soul. Harlan would brave the elements, of course, running off to more congenial company at his club, and she would be free to spend the whole day finding a way out of this morass.
Was there one? Last night she had not thought so, but even a gray and soggy day inevitably brought hope found lacking in the dead of night.
“My lady, was you wanting your chocolate now?” Finella bobbed a curtsy from just inside the bedchamber door. “Cook’s been keeping it warm in the kitchen.”
“Yes, please. And, Finella? Send Robert out to procure a copy of every newspaper. Every last one, do you hear?”
“But, miss—my lady, it’s raining cats and dogs!”
Of course it was. Much chagrined by her thoughtlessness, Sarah made a face. Would she never learn to think? “Tell him he is not to go until the rain lessens enough to accommodate an umbrella. Meanwhile, you may bring me all my invitations. Oh! And, Finella . . .” Sarah gathered up her husband’s much-wrinkled black satin dressing gown and thrust it toward her maid. “Please give this to Morgan.”
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