Utterly Devoted

by Regina Scott

  He rolled his eyes. “They will survive. I will not.”

  “You most certainly will,” Eloise replied with a sniff. “But if you are so eager for my company, be at my home at three in the afternoon, the day after tomorrow, for your second test.”

  He bowed, but she thought she saw the slightest hint of disappointment in those clear blue eyes. He had thought her so easily manipulated that she would relent. She would show him just how wrong he was.

  She spent the better part of the next two days trying to determine exactly what the test should be. She wanted to put him in his place once and for all. Unfortunately, nothing she could contrive seemed sufficient.

  As she sorted through one Machiavellian strategy after another, her social life came to a grinding halt. She only half-attended to the discussion of her literary group on the novel they were reading, she forgot a riding appointment with several of her former classmates from the Barnsley School, and she was careless in her devotions.

  It was apparent that even her father noticed her preoccupation.

  “Is there something on your mind, Eloise?” he asked over the second course of dinner one night.

  She smiled politely at him down the long table to the far end where he sat. “Nothing of import, Father.”

  She thought he offered a smile in return, but at that distance, it was difficult to tell. Though he did not question her further, she could not help but feel she had given him a poor answer.

  She was also poor company for her callers. She barely managed to entertain her share of beaus, among whom was the ever-hesitant Lord Nathaniel. He had gone so far as to fervently press her hand and tell her again how much he admired her. Unfortunately, before she could tell him that she would prefer to have proof of something beyond mere admiration, he’d become so misty eyed that he had been forced to excuse himself, still without so much as a suggestion that he might wish to speak to her father.

  She was just as glad. She wouldn’t have known what to tell him. She would have to come to terms with their feelings for each other, and soon, but not until she had accomplished Jareth’s comeuppance. This second test must not fail. She refused to have him turn the tables on her again. What she needed was an environment supportive to her goals, not his. Unfortunately, she wasn’t certain such a place existed.

  Her ruminations were interrupted Thursday afternoon by an unexpected caller.

  “A Mrs. Sinclair, by her card,” Bryerton told her from the doorway to the forward salon where she had gone to think. “She and Miss Portia Sinclair are waiting in the entry.”

  Meaning that he had found them wanting, Eloise thought as she lifted her lilac lustring skirts to descend the stairs. One could always tell Bryerton’s opinion of their guests. Worthy people were ushered into the garden withdrawing room immediately. Less impressive persons might be allowed on the main floor. Only the questionable were left cooling their heels in the entry. She very nearly giggled remembering how long it had taken Jareth to make it past the front steps.

  Portia and her stepmother were indeed standing in the entry. Portia was obviously uncomfortable. She kept shifting from foot to foot, the movements obvious in a green-sprigged muslin gown that barely reached her ankles. Her stepmother stood more calmly, stiff in a spruce gown with severe lines that betrayed her bulk. Still, her dark gaze darted from portrait to footman to the door and back again in jerky movements as if she too were nervous.

  “Mrs. Sinclair, Miss Sinclair,” Eloise greeted them as she came down the stairs. “How nice of you to call. Will you join me in the sitting room?”

  She led the way across the white-tiled entry to the opposite side where double oak doors opened onto a small receiving area. She perched on one of the hard-backed chairs and motioned Portia and her stepmother to chairs nearby. The girl sat on the edge of a chair and scooted it away from Eloise. It screeched as it crossed the edge of the Oriental carpet onto the hardwood floor. Eloise pretended not to notice, but Mrs. Sinclair grimaced and jerked her head as if to encourage Portia to begin.

  Portia’s smile was tight. “You must think me forward in coming to see you like this, Miss Watkin, particularly as we have barely been introduced. But after talking with my stepmother, I felt I must speak with you about a particular friend we have in common.”

  Eloise could not imagine who the girl could mean. As far as she knew, they had no acquaintances in common. “Oh?” she prompted.

  “Yes. Mr. Darby. Mr. Jareth Darby.”

  Eloise put on her most polite smile. “You have been misinformed, Miss Sinclair. Mr. Darby and I are not particular friends. We barely know each other.” That was certainly true. She began to think she would never truly know him.

  Portia blinked her soft gray eyes as if in confusion, exchanging glances with her stepmother.

  “But he speaks so highly of you,” Mrs. Sinclair put in firmly. “Naturally, we assumed ..”

  “Yes, well, now you know the truth,” Eloise told her. “I daresay Mr. Darby has far more interest in Miss Sinclair than he has in me.” She meant the sentiment to be encouraging but was surprised at how bitter it sounded. Portia apparently didn’t find fault, however, for she blushed and lowered her gaze.

  Mrs. Sinclair nodded. “I told her so.”

  Portia’s blush deepened. “I should be quite flattered if that were true, Miss Watkin. I greatly admire Mr. Darby.”

  “He is a rare gentleman,” Eloise allowed. “But I am afraid I can shed no more light on his interests. Was there anything else you wished to discuss with me?”

  Portia toyed with the lace on her long, puffed sleeves while her stepmother leaned forward. “We also came to wish you happy,” Mrs. Sinclair said, though the cheery words did not match the cool look in her gray eyes. “I believe I heard you are shortly to become Lady Nathaniel?”

  Now that she must deny. All she needed was for the viscount to think she had set out to capture him. Admiration might be ladylike; outright entrapment certainly was not. Eloise shook her head. “I am certain no such announcement has been made.”

  Portia raised her head, gray eyes flashing. “Why the cad!” she cried. “I have witnessed Lord Nathaniel’s devotion to you, Miss Watkin. He has never been so marked in his affections to another woman. If he should spurn you now, I would think him very callous indeed.”

  “He has not spurned me, I assure you,” Eloise corrected her hurriedly. She began to think she would never make it through the conversation without starting or confirming gossip. “I consider him a very dear friend and would be delighted should he seek to further that friendship.”

  “Oh, how lovely,” Portia replied happily.

  “Yes, lovely,” her stepmother purred. “Then, of course, you can have no interest in Mr. Darby.” She smiled, but Eloise could not feel comforted. Mrs. Sinclair obviously considered herself subtle, yet in fact her aim was painfully obvious. She wanted to make sure Eloise was happily occupied, leaving Portia an open path to Jareth. Eloise knew it was her duty to encourage the girl to look elsewhere.

  “Yes, it is lovely,” she agreed. “But I am certain one day I shall be wishing you happy, Miss Sinclair. You are having a marvelous Season. Any number of young men have shown interest, particularly that handsome Major Churchill.”

  Portia’s hand froze on her sleeve.

  Mrs. Sinclair’s smile froze as well. “Major Churchill was recalled to the field.”

  The clock on the mantel chimed the half hour with a cheery note. Portia leapt to her feet. “Oh, look at the time! How remiss of us to keep you so late. We must be going.”

  Mrs. Sinclair rose more slowly. “Yes, we must. Good day, Miss Watkin. Give our regards to Mr. Darby, if you should see him.”

  She made it sound as if that were highly unlikely. Eloise did not argue the point, merely rising to see them out.

  As she climbed the stairs again, she could only conclude that Jareth had made another conquest in Portia Sinclair. He even seemed to have won over the stepmother. Why did women persist in
throwing themselves at him? Could no one else see him for what he was?

  Perhaps she should turn it around. Could he not see the damage he did to the women with whom he dallied? If only she could show him without opening herself to the pain again. If only she could find another courageous woman who had been used and was willing to admit it.

  Then she knew exactly what the second test should be. It would take some convincing to pull it off. But if she started now, she might be ready by tomorrow afternoon, Saturday at the latest.

  Jareth Darby was about to be introduced to the evils of philandering by women who had experienced it first hand. She could hardly wait.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jareth presented himself at the Watkin townhouse exactly at three on Friday as requested. The two days had gone entirely too slowly for him. For one thing, he could not seem to forget the feel of Eloise in his arms as they danced. Indeed, the wondrous look on her face as he’d held her had raised in him such a fierce desire to protect her that he found it hard not to call on her sooner. Yet he sensed that if he called sooner, she would feel as if he were pursuing her, and he wasn’t sure how she’d react to that pursuit.

  Something was clearly troubling her. At first he had thought she feared that the ton might learn of their illicit affair. Then there was the issue of whether she actually feared him. Now he began to suspect that what she feared was forming a deeper attachment to him. Her heart had evidently been more involved in their earlier affair than he had thought, and she sought to protect it from him this time.

  None of his other ladies had ever pretended to love him. The idea that Eloise had loved him and might still be vulnerable to that emotion was surprisingly sweet. Yet he was not sure he was capable of succumbing to the same emotion. He admired the ladies with whom he dallied, cared about their well being, but the soul-sharing love the poets praised had never been his.

  Yet he could not deny that what he felt for Eloise was perilously close to that emotion. Certainly he could not escape her. Thoughts of Eloise seemed to follow him by day and by night. He’d smile at a pretty young miss only to notice that her hair was not as lustrous as Eloise’s. He’d engage a more seasoned lady in conversation and find that her responses were not as witty as Eloise’s. He’d even gone so far as to visit one of the more reputable gaming houses, where the hostess had been willing to let him sample her wares. To his surprise, he found himself uninterested. Instead, he wondered how Eloise would feel if she knew he was not as reformed as he claimed.

  He couldn’t even forget her through activities. While he had learned the locations of some of his old friends, he had not managed to call on them. One was in Bethlehem mental hospital, another recuperating from a bout of gout, and the rest happily married and raising children in various country estates. By the time the two days had passed, he was more than ready for some excitement and could not imagine a better companion in it than Eloise.

  She looked ready for it. There was a decided sparkle in those green eyes as the butler escorted him into the pale room. She generally did not dress with ostentation, but today her gown was a simple calico frock with a practical green broadcloth spencer. The crisp lines of the gown, however, only served to call attention to her curves.

  He bowed over her hand, allowing himself the luxury of lingering over the salute. She did not pull away as quickly as she had recently. Surprised and pleased, he spread the tails of his navy coat and seated himself beside her on the sofa.

  “And what delights have you planned for me today, madam?” he asked with a smile.

  The sparkle grew more pronounced. “I am putting you to work, Mr. Darby, if you can find a suitable position.”

  He raised a brow. “What did you have in mind? Perhaps lady’s maid?”

  She shook her head. “Much too easy for you, I have no doubt. No, I wish you to assist me in doing charity work, at Comfort House.”

  “Comfort House?” He could not hide his grin. “It sounds as if I would fit in rather well.”

  She smiled. “I think you may indeed. Comfort House is a home for women who hope to leave a life of prostitution. Lady Thomas DeGuis and Mrs. Anne Turner arrange for the women to be taught skills to make an honest way in the world.”

  “I see,” Jareth said, though in truth he did not. “And how might I assist?”

  “That is what we must determine. I volunteer once or twice a week to teach the finer points of sewing. Do you have anything useful you could teach?”

  He could see that she expected him to have no answer; those green eyes were far too wise. He licked his lips. “How to refuse a solicitation of sexual favors?”

  That wiped the smile from her face. “Oh, really,” she started. “I hardly think---.” She stopped suddenly, cocking her head to regard him steadily. Black ringlets tumbled over her shoulders, making his fingers itch to stroke them. “Perhaps you could at that,” she acknowledged. “I know Lady DeGuis laments the fact that the women of Comfort House are far too easy prey. There are those who refuse to let them renounce their trade. And even when they find other employment, they are not treated fairly. Some employers even expect favors.”

  He had made the suggestion as a joke but if she approved of the idea, it might make this test all the easier to pass. “I would be delighted to teach your young doves how to make their way in the world without sullying their feathers.”

  She shook her head. “That is quite enough of your euphemisms. Lady DeGuis despises them. In fact, you had better behave yourself, Jareth. Neither Lady DeGuis nor Mrs. Turner will find your flirting the least bit amusing. And the women of Comfort House have had too much experience with men like you to appreciate the finer points of your address.” She seemed to have convinced herself, for she straightened and smoothed down her calico skirts. “Yes, you will not find this test easy to pass.”

  “And what is the test, precisely?” he asked, leaning back to cross one booted leg over the other. “That I shall be able to resist the blandishments of the various tenants? I assure you, if you are there, I will have eyes for no one else.”

  “Nonsense. And I will be there. You may count on it.”

  “And the test?”

  “Is of your kindness. Demonstrate to my satisfaction that you are able to treat these women with respect and compassion.” She looked him in the eye, the green of her gaze gone suddenly flat with determination. “Notice the prefix on the word, if you will. Com-passion, sir, not passion.”

  “I shall be a plaster saint,” he promised.

  He found those words difficult to live when he accompanied Eloise in her carriage to the house that afternoon. There were beautiful women everywhere. Cherub-faced girls peered at him from between newel posts of the stairs. Experienced courtesans strolled past in the uncarpeted corridor, their assets readily displayed, their interest in him obvious. While none stirred him to the depths that Eloise did, he would have had to be the plaster saint he had promised not to look appreciative. How was he to prove himself kind and respectful when the very fruit of womanhood was laid out before him like a buffet table groaning with delights?

  Eloise was obviously expecting him to fail for he felt her gaze on him from the moment they were met at the front door by Mrs. Turner. Eloise had told him the woman was the house chaperone, but it was plain to him that she had once plied the same trade as her tenants. With soft brown hair piled high on her head and warm brown eyes, she had not lost the seductive, hip-grinding walk of a woman used to attracting attention for a living. The drab brown gown did nothing to hide her considerable curves. However, her gaze was even more assessing than Eloise’s.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking to agree to this,” she told them both. “Mr. Darby, you are simply too pretty to be of use to us.”

  Jareth raised a brow. “Do you judge a book by its cover, madam?”

  “No, thanks to her ladyship teaching us to read.”

  “I believe Mr. Darby means,” Eloise put in kindly, “that you should try his skills before
determining his usefulness.”

  Mrs. Turner snorted. “He could be the best teacher since the good Lord himself and I couldn’t use him. Just look at him, Miss Eloise. He’ll have them stacked six deep begging for favors.”

  The picture was infinitely satisfying, but he quickly wiped away the smile it brought to his face. “Would you prefer I grew warts? Perhaps crossed my eyes?”

  That wrung a chuckle from her, and Eloise turned away as if to hide a smile. “I doubt you could make yourself homely enough for my needs,” the woman told him. “But perhaps you might work after all, if you keep your wits about you. Just remember our goal, Mr. Darby. We want these women to earn a place in good society, not a spot in your bed.”

  He bowed. “I will endeavor to do nothing suggestive, madam.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t have to try to be suggestive; that smile is enough. But very well. You can teach. I’ll bring them to the dining room for you. It’s the one spot we have that will hold most of them. I think we have a dozen on their feet today. This way.”

  “On their feet?” Jareth murmured to Eloise as they followed their hostess across the darkly papered corridor to what had once been a formal dining room. The room’s wallpaper had been covered with a wash of pink paint, but the worn red carpet beneath the long walnut table made the space look heavy and not a little tired.

  “Some of the women arrive ill or injured,” Eloise whispered back as they took their places at the head of the thick-legged table and waited as Mrs. Turner left. “They remain bedridden until they are well or ... leave another way.”

  Now she was using a euphemism. It obviously distressed her that the women might die from their trade. He wasn’t sure he much liked the idea either. He had never considered the long-term prospects of a prostitute. Though some were surely well compensated, it appeared the pay was not generally commensurate with the risks of losing a place in Society or living without the benefit of laws protecting wives. Yet surely none of the comely lasses he’d seen need fear such an ugly end.