by Jane Feather
“Perhaps so, sir.”
Where exactly was Rupert? It was two o’clock in the morning, and Octavia glanced around the supper room, where the company had for the most part adjourned to nibble oyster patties and bread and butter and sip champagne.
She caught sight of Rupert in a window embrasure, deep in conversation with a highly painted lady in a gown of deep-red taffeta, a diamond collar glittering at her throat. Two heart-shaped beauty patches adorned the upper swell of her breasts, and when she moved an arm sideways to take a piece of bread and butter from the table, her right nipple popped out of her décolletage. She made no attempt to replace it, and as Octavia watched, Rupert delicately reinserted the nipple into her gown with a long, slender forefinger.
The lady laughed and tapped his cheek with her closed fan. Rupert’s lazy half smile played over his lips as he leaned back against the wall, turning the stem of his champagne glass between finger and thumb.
“There, you see!” pronounced the prince, whose gaze had followed Octavia’s. “Not a man to waste a minute is he? Warwick’s known as a philanderer, dear lady. Can’t expect a marriage vow to change a man’s character.”
Octavia offered a smile and a shrug of indifference.
The prince chuckled, wrapping an arm around her bare shoulders. His fingers played in the fichu at her neck. “Such a modest little thing,” he murmured. “No chance of your revealing a little too much of anything, Lady Warwick. Not like Lady Drayton … eh?”
“Lady Drayton has the advantage of me, sir.”
“Oh? How’s that?” The prince’s little eyes focused blearily. “A little more flesh there, is that it?” He patted Octavia’s bosom with a grin.
“No, sir. She has the advantage of years,” Octavia said smoothly, taking a step backward from the royal fingers.
“Oh, wicked! Such a little cat with her claws,” the prince boomed, highly delighted with this sally. “But I tell you, madam.” He wagged a finger at her. “Margaret Drayton would have your eyes out for that.”
“Indeed, sir. I tremble.” Octavia was at a loss to understand why there was an edge to her voice. Margaret Drayton was nothing to her. Rupert was simply playing his part, as she was playing hers. However, he’d certainly looked as if he was enjoying himself, dabbling in the lady’s bosom. But, then, why shouldn’t he? It was no business of Octavia’s. So why this dismaying curl of indignation in her belly?
As she watched, Rupert bent his head, his mouth close to the lady’s ear. Lady Drayton’s laugh shrilled abruptly over the hubbub in the supper room.
“They seem to be amusing themselves.” The dry voice spoke her thoughts. Philip Wyndham stood at her shoulder, his gaze fixed on the play across the room. A smile was on his lips, but it was a smile that sent a shiver down Octavia’s spine.
She looked up, meeting his eye, and was startled by the strangest sense of discordance, as if the rather beautiful face was not what it seemed. As if behind the smooth, broad expanse of his forehead, the clear gray eyes, the almost delicate features, lurked something venomous.
“Yes,” she said coolly, unfurling her fan. “They do. As does everyone else in the room. I do declare, sir, that this has been the most entertaining evening I’ve passed since we arrived in London.”
“Oh, the best value in town, ma’am,” the prince declared. “A ten-guinea subscription for a jolly weekly ball throughout the season … and such an elegant supper!” The group around him laughed dutifully at the heavy-handed sarcasm, and Octavia smiled.
“I am but new arrived, sir. My tastes are still unformed.”
“Oh, but not for long, I’D wager,” one young buck said with a leer. “I trust we may call upon you, Lady Warwick. Dover Street, isn’t it?”
“I should be honored.” Octavia curtsied to the prince. “I beg you to excuse me, sir. It grows late, and I should return to my husband’s side.”
“Allow me to escort you.” Philip Wyndham offered his arm with a bow.
“Thank you, my lord.” She placed her hand on his brocade sleeve, and they moved away from the still-chattering circle around the prince.
“You seem to have made a conquest of His Royal Highness. You’re to be congratulated, ma’am.”
“Is it matter for congratulation, sir?” Octavia looked up at him with a bland smile. “I would have thought it the opposite. His Highness does not appear to be particularly discriminating in his tastes.”
Surprise flashed across the slate-gray eyes bent upon her countenance, and the bud of interest they held burst into full flower. He smiled, and this time it was a warm and appreciative smile that seemed to bathe her in approval. Octavia felt herself smiling in response, and it took a moment of effort to remind herself that this man was Rupert’s enemy.
“It’s good to see you’re not blinded by consequence, ma’am,” the earl said. “The prince is a fool, but he can be useful if he’s played right.”
“I had rather assumed that, sir.”
The earl’s chuckle was abruptly cut off as they approached the embrasure, where Rupert and Lady Drayton still stood, deep in conversation, their heads very close together.
“La, sir, but you’ve a wicked tongue,” trilled Lady Drayton, tapping his wrist smartly with her fan. She turned to greet the new arrivals, her eyes very bright, her color higher than could be accounted for simply by rouge. “Why, Lord Wyndham, I didn’t realize you were here this evening. Lord Rupert has been so monstrously entertaining, I’ve scarce had a moment to look around.”
Philip bowed. “Then I’m certain there must be a great wailing and gnashing of teeth among your admirers, madam.” His tone managed to imply that he was not of their number, and Lady Drayton’s china-blue eyes flashed.
“I don’t believe you’re acquainted with my wife, ma’am.” Rupert stepped into the breach with a lazy smile. “Octavia, pray allow me to make you known to Lady Drayton.”
“An old acquaintance of yours, sir?” Octavia inquired with a sweet smile as she curtsied to Lady Drayton.
“Oh, no, a very recent one,” Rupert corrected.
“I was sure you must have known each other since you were babes in arms,” Octavia returned. “I was hoping Lady Drayton, out of friendship for you, would show me how to go on in society. She must have had so much more experience than I.”
Rupert swallowed an appreciative grin as Margaret looked daggers at the smooth-complexioned young woman smiling at her with such deceptive innocence.
“Your husband, my dear Lady Warwick, has had quite sufficient experience to perform that service for you,” Margaret said. “Indeed, it surprises me he hasn’t explained society fashion to you. To allow one’s wife to appear in such undress is … well, is quite cruel.” She tittered and batted her eyelashes at Rupert.
“Oh, hardly cruel, ma’am,” he murmured. “But I do believe one should learn through one’s errors. What do you think, Wyndham?”
The question was startlingly sharp, belied by his air of languid amusement. Octavia waited for the earl’s response, struggling with her resentment. For some reason she’d expected Rupert to defend her against that attack, instead of which he seemed to be agreeing with Margaret Drayton’s mocking assessment.
“Oh, I believe Lady Warwick knows exactly what suits her,” Philip said. “A woman who knows her own mind is always so refreshing. One is surrounded by so many sheep at court.” He smiled at Lady Drayton, but his eyes were gray ice, and he hesitated a moment too long before adding, “Present company excepted, of course.”
“Of course,” Rupert said, turning to Octavia. “If you’re ready to leave this scene of dissipation, my dear, I’m at your service.”
“I’m quite ready.” Octavia offered Lord Wyndham a curtsy. “You’re very gallant, sir.”
“I speak only the truth, madam.” He bowed and took her hand, raising it to his lips. “I trust I may call upon you.”
“I should be honored…. Lady Drayton.” Another curtsy and she placed her hand on Rupert’s proffe
red arm.
They moved sedately through the rooms, down the stairs to the hall. Rupert sent one servant scurrying for their cloaks and a second to call their carriage. They stood silent in the hall under the brilliant light of three chandeliers. The silence seemed awkward. Octavia tried to think of something to say to break it, but she felt strangely out of sorts, annoyed and resentful, though she could think of no good reason for it. Rupert appeared to be as relaxed as ever, one foot tapping on the marble floor in time to the strains of music drifting down from the ballroom, his gaze roaming lazily around the crowd of departing revelers.
“Oh, my dear Lady Warwick, leaving us so soon.” The Prince of Wales tottered and swayed down the staircase. He grabbed hold of the banister as he reached the bottom step. “Come and play cards, ma’am. I can promise a good game at Lady Mount Edgecombe’s tonight.” He offered a skewed wink in Rupert’s direction. “Your husband, I’ll wager, isn’t averse to a game of evens and odds. Eh, Warwick?”
“On any other evening, sir, I’d be overjoyed,” Rupert responded. “But my wife is fatigued.”
“Oh, yes … yes, of course.” The prince nodded sagely, tapping the side of his nose. “And you’re but new to the marriage bed. What … what?” he added in imitation of his father, laughing uproariously, his courtiers joining him.
“I trust we can persuade Your Highness to play in Dover Street on some evening,” Rupert suggested once the paroxysms had faded somewhat.
“Oh … oh, what’s this, then? Settin’ up a faro house of your own, are you?” The prince’s eyes sharpened as far as they were able to. “Is Lady Warwick going to join our Faro’s Daughters, then?”
“I can promise an amusing evening, sir,” Octavia said, smoothly picking up her cue. “I’ll not presume to rival the salons of Lady Buckinghamshire or Lady Archer or Viscountess Mount Edgecombe, but I believe Your Highness might find some entertainment at our house.”
“Oh, capital … capital,” the prince declared, clapping his hands. “D’ye hear that, fellows? Lady Warwick is to join the ranks of Faro’s Daughters.” Leaning over, he kissed her heartily on the cheek. “Send a card, dear lady, when the tables are set up.”
“Lord Rupert Warwick’s coach!” a voice bellowed from the door. The servant ran up with their cloaks, and in the flurry the Prince of Wales and his cohorts moved noisily away. Rupert draped Octavia’s cloak around her shoulders, took his own from the servant, and escorted her outside.
King Street was lined with coaches and sedan chairs, link boys running up and down, holding their oil lamps high to light emerging revelers to their vehicles. Two women appeared from the alley leading to King’s Place, their gowns and hair artfully disarrayed. They lounged against a wall, watching the scene.
The Prince of Wales bumbled through the doorway behind Octavia and Rupert. With a whoop he charged across King Street to the two women. “I’ve a mind to visit a nunnery after all that respectable insipidity,” he bellowed at the top of his voice. “Take me to your abbess, my dear delights.” He swayed off down the alley, arm in arm with the two prostitutes, his cohorts following eagerly in his wake.
“What a poxy horrible creature,” Octavia declared with feeling.
“He probably will be poxed if he goes with those whores,” Rupert observed. “There are clean houses in King’s Place and Covent Garden, but for some inexplicable reason our esteemed heir to the throne prefers to dabble in the sewers.” He moved aside to hand Octavia into the coach.
As she put one foot on the step, a plump lady enveloped in a puce velvet cloak emerged from the assembly rooms. She caught her foot on a loose paving stone and pitched forward with a cry of dismay. Rupert dropped Octavia’s hand and ran to help the woman to her feet.
“Are you hurt, ma’am?” He picked up her fallen reticule and handed it to her.
“No … no, I thank you, sir. So stupid … so clumsy of me.”
“But you are ever thus, my dear,” came a cold voice behind her. Philip Wyndham surveyed his wife with an air of utter contempt. “Stupid and clumsy as an ox. Aren’t you, madam?”
Letitia looked down at the pavement and wished it would open to swallow her. There were people everywhere, eyes and ears open to catch her husband’s icy contempt.
“Aren’t you, madam?” he repeated with a deadly ferocity.
“Yes, Philip,” she said softly. “Yes, I do beg your pardon.” Tears filled her eyes and she kept her gaze lowered, staring wretchedly at the ground.
“Do you intend to stand here all night?” her husband inquired. “Allow me to point out that the chair awaits your pleasure, my dear.” He gestured to the sedan chair with the Wyndham arms on the panel, and the two burly chairmen who were staring rigidly ahead down the busy street.
“I beg your pardon,” Letitia apologized again, stepping toward the chair. She clambered awkwardly over the poles to enter through the front, the wide swinging skirts of her gown making her inherent clumsiness even more pronounced.
Rupert stood in the shadows, watching, waiting for his brother to offer a hand to assist his wife, but Philip remained where he was, his Hp curled in disdain, until the door was closed on Letitia. The two chairmen hoisted their considerable burden onto their shoulders and trotted off down King Street, threading their way through the traffic.
Philip spun on his heel and walked away in the opposite direction. As he passed Rupert, he walked beneath an oil lamp, and the golden light illuminated his face. Rupert saw the Philip that only he had known in their childhood. The face that was no longer a beautiful mask but the true reflection of the twisted soul beneath. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth thinned with malice, his entire expression radiating the triumph and satisfaction of the sadist who has just inflicted pain.
Rupert turned back to the coach, where Octavia still stood poised, one foot on the step. She hadn’t heard the exchange between Wyndham and his countess but had sensed its vicious nature. Now Rupert’s face sent a cold dart through her belly. He looked haunted, pain etched in every line of his countenance, but it wasn’t that that turned her blood to water—it was the fearsome anger that superseded the ghostly pain.
“What has he done to you?” she asked softly, involuntarily.
Rupert’s eyes focused abruptly. “You don’t need to know that.” He took her hand and with his other palm in the small of her back urged her upward into the coach.
“There is an evil in him,” Octavia declared with a fierce intensity, arranging her skirts on the leather squabs. “I sense it, and I know that you know it. And yet you would have me seduce this man without telling me anything of what you know. Is that fair, Rupert?”
Rupert sat opposite her. He regarded her in the darkness of the coach, frowning. “Fairness doesn’t come into it,” he said eventually. “Yes, Philip Wyndham is evil. But I won’t permit any harm to come to you at his hands. If you fulfill your side of this bargain, you have no need to know what I know, and you need have no fear of him. He hurts only those in his power. And you will not be.”
“How can you say that?” Octavia expostulated. “How can I not be in his power when I am in his bed? What power does a woman have in those circumstances?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised how much,” Rupert said, his voice now light.
“I don’t find it a subject for jest,” Octavia said tightly. “You know perfectly well what I mean … how vulnerable I will be in such a situation. This is a man who preys on the vulnerable, you’ve just said so.”
“My dear, you will not be vulnerable in the only way that appeals to Philip,” Rupert said, leaning back, folding his arms. “He’s interested in hurting souls, not bodies. And your soul will not be in his power. Besides, it may not be necessary for you to make the”—he paused as if considering his words, and then said wryly—“the ultimate sacrifice.”
How could he make a joke of it? How could he be so derisively dismissive about something that touched her so nearly? Was it really a matter of indifference to him whether she prosti
tuted herself with Philip Wyndham or not? But he probably didn’t see it in those terms. No one in this depraved society would think twice about it. They all played these sordid little games.
Rupert had closed his eyes as if to indicate that the subject had ceased to be of interest. The coach slowed at a crossroads, and a link boy’s lamp swayed in the window. Lamplight and shadow played over the planes of his closed face, throwing the harshness of his mouth, the clenched set of his jaw, into sharp relief.
His expression was utterly uncompromising, and Octavia was learning when it was pointless to push this man whose bed she shared, whose body she was growing to know almost as well as she knew her own. He could switch in the beat of a bird’s wing from an amused and amusing companion to a chilly, distant, and dictatorial stranger. And she had not as yet learned how to resist those dictates. Any more than she’d learned to resist the magnetism of his personality, the way he could sweep her along his chosen path, making light of her objections when he didn’t ignore them totally. Any more than she could imagine turning away from him when he reached for her with the hands of lust and the eyes of passion.
“We made a good start this evening, I believe,” she said in level tones, drawing her cloak around her shoulders against the night frost.
Rupert’s eyes opened and rested on her countenance. She saw a softness now in the gray depths and a glimmer of amusement. He began to count on his fingers as he spoke. “Yes, you’ve managed to arouse Wyndham’s interest and the prince’s unbridled lust; to establish yourself as a lady who enjoys pushing the bounds of convention; and to issue a general invitation for high stakes gaming in your salons.”
He smiled lazily. “Against the law, of course. Justice Kenyon threatened Lady Buckinghamshire with the cart’s arse if she came up before him for running a gaming house.”
“He couldn’t have meant it?” Octavia’s eyes widened as she imagined the obese figure of Lady Buckinghamshire whipped at the cart’s tail through the streets of London.
“No, I don’t think even Kenyon would dare punish a member of the aristocracy in such fashion,” Rupert agreed with a chuckle. “But the threat caused some alarm.” He linked his hands in his lap, and the emerald on a slender forefinger glowed dully in the darkness.
