“I saw a great deal more of you before our fateful journey to Newmarket,” he complained.
“You saw me more frequently. Before our night in Saffron Walden, you hadn’t seen so very much of me,” she teased.
“I wish I could see all of you now—every glorious inch.” Holding her, he said urgently, “Come with me to Deptford. It’s not the most romantic destination, but at least we’d share a bed again.”
She nodded. “I’ll go. And will you accompany me to Cheshire? Rushton and Matthew were at the Haymarket tonight, and renewed the invitation—which includes you. Just think, Dare, it takes three days to travel to Rushton Hall, and three more back to London.’ ”
“Six nights,” he said huskily, “of sleeping together. When do we leave?”
Softly laughing, she replied, “Not for another month.”
He groaned, then expressed his impatience with hot, desperate kisses. “This sneaking about is maddening.”
“I know.” She sighed. “But it’s necessary.”
“Is it? Your friend Matthew caught us kissing. The earl is exceedingly sharp—he’s surely guessed the truth.”
“I hope not. But neither of them would gossip about me.”
“Suppose some other friend—or enemy—asked you about the true nature of our relationship. Would you lie?”
With a few direct words, he revived the concern that had gnawed at her while watching the play: His doubts about her integrity persisted. “I would evade the question. But in my experience, people don’t ask—they always assume the worst.” She laid her head upon his chest. “You must think it ridiculous for a female of ill repute to be so careful.”
“On occasion, you have struck me as misguided, frustrating, and damnably secretive. But never would I describe you as ridiculous.”
“I’m sorry I must force you to be furtive and guarded—it’s not in your character.”
“You’re worth it, Oriana. And there are rewards.” Inserting his hand through a gap in her cloak, he stroked her bare skin. “We learn from each other. I teach you the virtue of candor, and you show me the value of privacy.”
His fingers had plunged deep into her bodice, lighting fires that could not be quenched there and then.
And how she wished they could express their passion in a place more secluded than Soho Square, more personal than the bedchamber of an inn.
Chapter 24
While their audience viewed the Grand Cascade’s many marvels, Oriana soothed her throat with tea and lemon in the Vauxhall performers’ green room. Ned waved his mug of porter as he gave his opinion of their performance in the first portion of the musical program.
Glancing down at his tailcoat, with gleaming brass buttons down the front and gold braid at the sleeves and pockets, he declared, “I’m as fine as any gentleman on the Isle of Man. What would Tom Lace and my other mates say, could they see me now?”
“They’d envy your good fortune,” she responded. “Your labors at Vauxhall are less arduous than they were in the Corlett mine. And the pay is better.”
” Ta. But I know not what I’ll do with so fine a suit when we’re home again.”
Cold fingers of dread clutched Oriana’s throat, briefly trapping her voice. “Has Sir Dare mentioned returning to the island?”
“The Dorrity will be ready to sail in a matter of weeks, he says. A full cargo she’ll carry—Mainshtyr Dare’s rooms are so full of furniture, there’s no moving about. Every day more pieces are delivered to the hotel.”
If Dare’s departure was imminent, he wouldn’t have agreed to accompany her to Cheshire. In the weeks she’d known him, he’d held nothing back. Whatever his intentions, he was certain to reveal them.
Dare Corlett didn’t drop hints or leave room for speculation; he formed decisions and acted on them. At no time during their brief stay in Deptford, where his vessel was being refitted, had he implied that he planned to leave England.
If he did, he would return. Eventually.
While she was away at Rushton Hall, Ned would remain in London. His popularity here at Vauxhall, combined with Oriana’s warm recommendation, had brought forth an invitation from the proprietor of a London theater. Mr. Hughes had engaged the Manx fiddler to perform his native music at Sadler’s Wells for the next fortnight.
When he drained his mug, he said sympathetically, “You must be sorry to miss the fireworks.”
She could look forward to a different sort of fireworks. Already sizzling with anticipation, she replied, “A gala night is no novelty for me, for I’ve been singing here since I was ten years old.” She couldn’t regret her early departure, knowing that Dare and a post chaise waited for her at the entrance to the gardens. The instant she completed her encore—a closing-night audience was certain to demand one—she and her lover would hasten to the Red Lion at Barnet, some ten miles out from London.
In the afternoon, a carriage bearing Suke Barry and Jonathon Wingate, with a collection of necessary baggage, had left town. Wingate’s professional friendship with Lumley appeared to be genuine, yet Oriana felt certain it was Suke who drew him to Soho Square and was happiest to see him. Aware that her maidservant and the personable gentleman’s gentleman had been carrying on a flirtation, she had refrained from comment. Complications could arise from a serious romance between Suke and Wingate, but from her own experience she knew how uncomfortable prying questions and interference could be.
The servants, no doubt, would enjoy the journey to Cheshire as much as she and Dare intended to, and she trusted them to behave just as discreetly.
Dare could hardly contain his impatience to leave Vauxhall. He endured successive disappointments each time an individual or a party exited through the gates. Oriana’s concerts usually finished at eleven o’clock. When she failed to meet the post chaise at the appointed location—an alley off Vauxhall Road—he supposed that she’d been detained.
He trusted that the accommodations of the Red Lion in Barnet would please him better than the Anchor at Deptford. The dirtiest town in England could boast one of the filthiest inns. Oriana had proved her mettle on that occasion, making no complaint, but their hole-in-corner trysting place had been an appalling insult to her gentility. They could have spent a more comfortable night on board the Dorrity, if his cabin hadn’t smelled of new paint and his crew hadn’t been aboard.
Leaving the vehicle to search for his missing lady, he made his way to the brick facade that screened the gardens. Rockets burst, and after the successive explosions he saw the shimmer of sparks high above the treetops. The odor of singed gunpowder reminded him of the many times he’d stood at a safe distance, waiting for an earth-shuddering blast to open up a new mine shaft.
A multitude of carriages clogged the road, from cheap hackneys to costly private coaches. When he reached the passage through which the Vauxhall merrymakers passed in and out of the gardens, he witnessed the ejection of a rumpled gentleman who protested loudly at this treatment.
“Don’t make no more trouble, sir,” the doorkeeper advised, “or I’ll call a constable and charge you with breaking the peace. Mr. Simpson said I could return your money—that’s fair enough, ain’t it? And if you stand here on t’other side of the carriageway, you might see some of the rockets going up.”
“Bugger Mr. Simpson,” said the culprit in an ugly tone, embracing a column for support. “And bugger the money, and bugger your blasted fireworks. I don’t care a damn for any of it.” He staggered forward a few steps before collapsing, and groaned in pain when his knees struck the cobbles.
The doorkeeper, having fulfilled his duty, retreated. Most of the passersby ignored the drunken gentleman, although a few glanced at him disdainfully.
Dare went over to help him rise. When he grasped the man’s elbow he was shaken off.
“Go away.” Struggling to his feet, the drunkard began a slow progress toward the main road. As he wove in and out among the waiting carriages, outraged coachmen shouted curses or mocked him.
&nb
sp; An accident waiting to happen, thought Dare. Unwilling to stand by as a witness to disaster, he followed.
“Leave me be,” the man said over his shoulder.
“Do you want a hackney to run you down?”
“That’d be a mercy.”
“Not for the chap who cleans up the mess,” Dare pointed out. He flung out a hand to keep the man from toppling over. “Steady now. Did you come here alone?”
“Lost my friend in the crowd—must’ve found himself a willing whore in one of the Dark Walks. I wasn’t so lucky. Caught myself a plump little slut, but she played the coquette to get more money out of me. When I put her hand on my tackle, she started screeching. Then she struck me.” The man rubbed his cheekbone. “A case of assault, pure and simple. And I’m the one who got tossed out on my arse.” Head bowed, he muttered, “Shouldn’t have come here. I wanted to see her again. There was a notice in the newspaper, I knew she’d be here.” His jaw dropped lower still, and his muffled speech became incoherent. Glancing up, he asked sharply, “Who the devil are you?”
“A newcomer to London. Where I live, we help people in trouble.”
The stranger’s truculent face revealed all the ravages of excess. Drink had fleshed out his cheeks, blurring his once-fine features. “Then tell me, is there a public house nearby?”
That was the last place he needed to be, but Dare wasn’t about to provoke an argument by saying so.
“There’s one at Vauxhall Stairs, where the watermen congregate.”
The man lunged forward.
“Do you know where you’re going?”
“Straight to hell, damn you.”
Dare’s altruistic impulse survived the insult. Unable to relinquish the duties of self-appointed guardian, he pursued the unsteady figure.
“Don’t you have anything better to do than chase me around Southwark?”
“Yes.” He cast a fleeting glance at his traveling chaise, its lamps glowing in the darkness. “But in your present condition, you shouldn’t be wandering about alone. However great your difficulties seem now, they’ll be far less daunting tomorrow.”
“Much you know about it,” the man retorted. “D’you think I’m about to throw myself into the river?
She’s not worth it. Never was.”
Dare doubted he was referring to his screeching slut from the Dark Walk. “I gather you had a Vauxhall assignation, and something went amiss.”
“Oh, I saw her—from a distance. Didn’t want her to see me.” With a shrug, he added, “Not that she’d recognize me. Three years of country living, not to mention the endless frustrations of married life, has taken a toll. I’m not the man I was before my lady wife disrupted a delightful bachelorhood.” His cynical eyes focused on Dare, and he angled his disheveled head. “What d’you think of her? A prime article, isn’t she?”
“Your wife?”
“The St. Albans. Sweet Ana, the Siren of Soho.”
Unwilling to share his opinion of Oriana with an inebriated reveler, Dare responded, “She’s exceptionally talented.”
The stranger’s smile was sly. “More talented than you can possibly know. Took me an age to get her under me, but I succeeded. Every man in London was after her, but I’m the one she lusted for.”
He knew better than to believe a boast so patently false. The stream of salacious reminiscences that followed was the product of a drunken admirer’s overexcited imagination. He was glad he’d removed the man before Oriana had exited the gardens.
“I was mad with desire for her. I grew reckless—I cared not at all that I had pledged to marry an eligible lady and was expected to breed strong grandsons for a wispy duke.”
“You’re not alone in losing your head over Madame St. Albans.”
“No. But I’m the only one she fancied.”
A baseless claim, Dare assured himself. If he gathered together all the men who had pursued Ana St.
Albans, the line would stretch the length of Britain, from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. She treated them all exactly the same, whether prince or peer or commoner. He’d witnessed her behavior in Hyde Park, at Vauxhall, in her drawing room. In all situations, she exhibited charm and civility. This gentleman, entranced and desperate to possess her, had translated her politeness as encouragement.
“She’d had a man before—knew exactly what I was after. And wanted it as much as I did, even if she pretended not to. My marriage offer quieted her protests quick enough. I had the honor of swiving her once a week.” Whirling around, the drunkard clutched Dare’s coat lapels. “When I sheathed my sword inside her that first time, she liked it well enough. If she complained about our delayed nuptials, I gave her costly baubles-those diamonds cost me a fortune. Didn’t object to the bedsport, oh, no, she just didn’t want to be found out. It wasn’t till she learned of my betrothal that she refused to see me again. Her scheme to catch a husband in her mantrap came to naught.”
In essentials, the bitter, maudlin tirade corresponded uncannily with Oriana’s account of her unhappy love affair.
“Nowadays, she prances ‘round the town just as she always did, and parades herself on the stage. I’m told she plays the whore for any man who asks.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” Dare said roughly. Calling someone a liar—especially when he was drunk—inevitably resulted in violence. No good could come of an altercation, although he was sorely tempted to knock the sneer off the man’s face.
“Trust me, I know far more about Ana St. Albans than you do—or ever will. I can tell you things …”
“Don’t,” he warned. “You’ll regret it.” Seeking verification of the suspicion that had swelled into certainty, he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Teversal. Husband of Lady Penelope, son-in-law to the Duke of Wilminster.”
“Thomas Teversal?”
“M’friends call me Tom. You can, too.”
Dare was no friend to the villain who had lied to Oriana, seduced her, abandoned her, and capped his cruelties by publicizing their liaison.
Teversal put a hand to his brow. “Can’t go to Soho Square—servants would turn me away. This was her last Vauxhall night, and my best chance of meeting her again. Shouldn’t have swilled so much champagne, but I was nervous.”
“I suggest you sober yourself up before presenting yourself to Madame St. Albans,” said Dare. “I happen to know an excellent remedy for drunkenness.”
“If you share it, I’ll be forever in your debt.”
“Gladly.” With a grim smile, Dare guided Teversal toward the river. “Take a deep breath.”
With one mighty push, he sent Oriana’s betrayer into the Thames.
He waited until the soaked, sputtering head bobbed up to the surface, then called out, “Cold water—you’ll want to remember it next time.”
“Bastard!”
He turned to the coterie of oarsmen loitering nearby. Grinning at one of them, he said, “Toss him a rope.”
“Right, guv’nor.”
“I could’ve drowned! You’ll pay for this,” Teversal sputtered. “Don’t walk away, you bugger—I’ll know your name and direction. My friends will call upon you tomorrow, by God. So have your pistols ready!”
Dare ignored the implied challenge and left Teversal to the care of the watermen, who had thrown out a towline.
His rash act had given him some satisfaction. The perfidious Thomas was a greater ass than he’d imagined, and a temporary blot upon his peace of mind. On his way back to the alley where his carriage stood, he congratulated himself on saving Oriana from an unwanted and distressing encounter.
A gloved hand emerged from the post chaise, beckoning, and he quickened his pace. He flung the door open and climbed inside.
“Where were you?” Oriana asked.
“Strolling by the river. I guessed you’d been delayed.”
She sighed. “Three encores tonight. And Mr. Simpson made one of his speeches, telling me how pleased he was with my performance
s this season. Most gratifying, but I was desperate to get away.
Ned stayed for the fireworks—I wish you’d seen his face when the first rocket went up.”
She was always like this after leaving her stage—talkative, bubbling with energy and spirits. He wouldn’t douse them by bringing up Thomas Teversal.
Her detailed description of the concert concluded with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve been chattering too much. Tell me your news.”
“What little I have to share came from Suffolk. I received a report on Combustible’s training regimen and her progress from Nick Cattermole, the Duke of Halford’s trainer. The lameness in her foot troubles her no more, and she joins in the morning gallops.”
“What distance is he running her?”
“Five miles.”
“That’s promising.”
“And he sweats her once a week. Whatever that means.”
“It builds stamina,” Oriana explained. “Her groom piles blankets on her back and her jockey takes her out for a long, hard run. Afterward, she’s led to a shady place to be scraped and dried off before they walk her back to her stable—very slowly.”
“I hope she doesn’t mind. I would.”
“She’s familiar with the routine.”
“Cattermole should direct his letters to you,” he commented wryly. “I’m too ignorant to appreciate or comprehend them. What’s more, that filly should belong to you. I know you refuse to accept gifts, but couldn’t you bend the rule?”
“If Mick Kelly makes good his promise to employ me at the opera house, my income would double. I could afford to buy Combustible, but I wouldn’t be able to race her because I’m a female, and she’d never get her chance to prove herself.” Laying her hand upon his knee, Oriana said contritely, “I’ve saddled you with too much responsibility—and expense.”
“I don’t complain. Much.”
Improper Advances Page 24
