No Ordinary Mistress (Entangled Scandalous)

by DeHart, Robyn

  They weren’t rags, she wanted to tell him, but rather her own clothing. She had always been a conservative dresser, mostly due to the fact she’d inherited her mother’s voluptuous curves, and if she were to wear clothes more fitting with today’s fashions, she knew men would ogle her, expect that she were a certain type of woman. So she’d started young wearing modest clothing, and when she’d been placed as governess at Lord Comfry’s, her own attire worked perfectly. Though, of course, she left all her clothes at the Comfry’s when she fled the townhome. Perhaps she could beseech Harrison to send someone over to retrieve them. She certainly could not go back herself. In the meantime, she wore a gown obviously borrowed from Harrison’s mother or aunt; it was ill-fitting and a non-descript gray.

  This assignment was now hopelessly muddled. None of her training or her years on the job had prepared her for this. She’d even used her first name to avoid confusion. Now perhaps she’d have to give up her name as well, at least for a time. But before she could ask questions or comment on the “rags” she wore, the carriage stopped, and Harrison assisted her down.

  “Where are we?”

  “Lord Westbridge’s townhome.”

  Emma frowned. Westbridge was Remy’s title. She wanted to ask Harrison if he’d gone mad, but she couldn’t be argumentative. Remy Hawthorne was a much-admired man in the Seven, not to mention good friends with Harrison. But certainly Harrison knew of her history with Remy. Not that their history bothered her. To her, he was nothing more than a rogue who believed women needed men to take care of them. Evidently, he must do something right else he wouldn’t be in the organization.

  She and Harrison climbed the stairs, and upon knocking, the butler gave them entrance. While working with Remy, first training with him at the Academy and then on assignment in Paris, she’d often wondered what his home would look like. The butler showed them to a large parlor at the back of the house that overlooked the gardens. He made them wait nearly fifteen minutes before gracing them with his presence.

  “A bit early, don’t you think, Harrison?” Remy asked. He came in barefoot with his cravat untied. A swath of his golden skin peeked out, and Emma’s mouth went dry. Did he have to be so handsome? She looked away, cursing her body for reacting to his mere presence.

  “Madam Dupree will be here in half an hour. We have much work to accomplish before then,” Harrison said, ignoring Remy’s question.

  The man sat, crossing his long legs out in front of him. He looked out of place in the delicately decorated room. He grinned at her wolfishly, and again she looked away, but not before she released a sound of derision.

  “Now, I know the two of you have not always seen things precisely the same way,” Harrison said. “But it is imperative you work together for this investigation. With Remy, I know you’ll be protected until we can catch Comfry’s murderer.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say that we had to work together and that he was protecting me?” Emma asked, not quite believing what she’d heard. No! She couldn’t work with Remy. She thought Harrison understood that. She forced her panic aside.

  Harrison nodded. “Yes, that is what I said.”

  “I do not require anyone’s protection, least of all his. As a full operative of the Seven, I have extensive training in self-defense. The same training Remy has, I might point out.”

  “Only because I taught you said defenses,” Remy said under his breath.

  Harrison’s lips curved slightly, but she couldn’t tell if he was amused by the idea that she could protect herself or by Remy’s annoying sarcasm. “Yes, Emma, I am fully aware of that, having supervised your training myself. However, you will not merely be under Remington’s protection.” Harrison seemed to realize what his words implied, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “You will still be on assignment searching for the link between Comfry and the other traitors, not to mention his killer. By working with Remy, he can get you into places that you cannot go yourself.”

  “Of all the men in the Seven, why must I work with him?” She didn’t want to be paired up with any man, least of all Remy, who tempted her so and muddled her thoughts and made her wish for all the things she could never have.

  “Did you not tell her any of this?” Remy asked.

  “No, I thought I’d wait until we were all here together.”

  “Coward,” Remy said with another grin.

  “Tell me what, precisely?”

  “You’ll be posing as my mistress, sweetheart,” Remy said with a lecherous wink.

  Emma came to her feet. “I shall do no such thing.” She turned to Harrison. Working with Remy would be bad enough, but pretending to be his mistress? It was intolerable! “There must be another way.”

  “We need to make certain you’re protected while we investigate the murder. We can’t afford to pull you from the assignment altogether. You know Comfry’s circumstances and habits better than anyone else. We cannot know if the killer saw you or knew you were there,” Harrison said. “Remy is a qualified spy, Emma. He will take good care of you.”

  Her training had taught her how to slow her breathing, gentle her pounding heart, so she could appear in command of her faculties. Inside, though, she stewed in turmoil.

  “Indeed.” Remy leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “And I’ve been needing a new mistress.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “You are a pig.” Her fate was sealed.

  “We need to get you into Pennington Hall so you can search for Comfry’s journal, but you can’t just show up there. You need an appropriate cover,” Harrison said.

  “Which is?”

  Remy leaned forward. “I’ve been invited to a party very near there, and we’ll be attending. You, as my new mistress.”

  He was so damned cocky; she wanted to box his ears. Sitting like he was with his legs out and his feet bare. The smirk on his face nearly made her forget how damned dashing he was. Nearly. This scenario was perfect for him since he so desired to protect her. But she knew a man’s protection was nothing more than a veiled nicety for control. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was,” he said.

  She closed her eyes briefly, willing herself to stay calm.

  “You shouldn’t have any problems pretending to be a seductress, should you, Emma?” One of Remy’s brows shot up.

  For the briefest instant, she thought she saw a flash of pain in his eyes, as though the thought of her seducing another man brought him grief. In that moment, it was as though she was back at that cramped boarding house in Paris where they had lived together for all those weeks. This was the man she’d believed was her friend, and then he’d betrayed her. Then the moment passed, and in the place of the hurt, she found smirking arrogance.

  He was a bounder of the worst sort.

  How dare he call her out like this, in front of her superior, no less. How dare he act as though she were somehow morally deficient for doing her job when he apparently had carte blanch to do whatever he damn well pleased. And mostly, she wanted to wipe the smirk off his face by telling him the truth. That she had never seduced the Comte. That she had used her intelligence and her cunning to get the information she needed without dropping her drawers. However, she also had the intelligence and the cunning to impress her superior without putting down another spy. Instead, she turned her attention back to Harrison. “I am accomplished at covert operations, certainly I can search Pennington on my own.”

  “No, it is not safe for you to do that. You will work with Remy.” Harrison turned his attention to Remy. “And you shall be professional. Stop taunting her. She has already been under enough stress.”

  They thought her weak, in need of protection. “I can assure you, I can take care of myself.”

  “Be that as it may, you are assigned to be here until further notice,” Harrison said. “I’m going to wait for Madam Dupree and have a word with her before she comes in to measure you, Emma. While I’m out, I fully expect the two of you to work
this,” he waved his hand, “whatever this is between you, work it out.” He left the room.

  Emma wanted to run, she couldn’t deny that, but she wouldn’t give Remy the pleasure.

  “I knew I’d eventually get you in my bed,” Remy said as soon as they were alone.

  “As soon as we find that journal, this charade ends. And I don’t appreciate you insinuating I’m nothing more than a whore, especially in front of Harrison.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” He stood, closing the distance between them.

  She looked up at him and, for a moment, got lost in the mossy depths of his eyes. She tried, desperately, to read his emotions, but he’d been a spy longer than she. He was better at this game of hiding his true self to carry out a mission. “You shouldn’t have any problems pretending to be a seductress,” she said, doing her best to mock his tone.

  His brows rose. “Is that how I sound?” When she didn’t answer, he continued, “I was merely referring to your secret skill. Should I be worried about my virtue?” he asked. He leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of her and effectively pinning her against the bookshelf behind her. He was so close she could smell his sandalwood soap. So close she thought he might kiss her.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “First, you have no discernable virtue. Second, I wouldn’t touch you if my life depended on it.”

  “Promises, promises.” He shoved off the shelf and walked away.

  She wanted to protest more. Surely Harrison could be persuaded to see reason, though she had a sinking suspicion he had made up his mind. However, before she could protest more, the parlor doors opened, and Harrison re-entered with a petite woman with a riot of bright red hair and enough cleavage to stop the war. Two other women came in behind her.

  “And perfect timing, Madam Dupree,” Remy said.

  The woman pointed at Emma. “This is her?” she asked, her French accent thick.

  “Yes.”

  “Vous ne pouvez pas faire une bourse de soie avec une oreille de cochon,” the woman muttered to her assistants, who laughed in response.

  Emma winced. Her French was impeccable, and she knew precisely what the woman said. But she had no desire to be transformed into a silk purse, and she certainly thought she was more handsome than a pig’s ear. She realized she was not beautiful, not in any conventional ways, but she’d never thought she was particularly unattractive.

  “Harrison, I believe I have a new pistol to show you. In my study,” Remy said, walking toward the door.

  “Ah yes, I’ve been wanting to see that.”

  Madam Dupree rolled her eyes. “Men.” Once they had left, the modiste stood in front of Emma for several moments. She was going to tell her there was no hope. She was too plain for anything fancy. How about a lovely shade of brown?

  “This will not do.” Madam Dupree’s lips pinched, and her eyes narrowed. She grabbed Emma’s waist. “What is this frock you are wearing? Look at your tiny waist and your rounded hips,” her French accent filled the room. “And to hide your bosom beneath.” She clicked her tongue.

  Emma closed her eyes, willing this moment away. Why did it matter how she looked? She was a spy, a crucial element in his majesty’s defenses. What did it matter where her bosom was or if anyone could see it?

  “There is no need to apologize. Some women are uncomfortable with their bodies and do not like to flaunt their figures. But we will change that for you, no?” She moved her finger down to the center of Emma’s chest. “A dress with a bit more décolletage. And something lush.” Madam Dupree turned and glanced around the room, scanning the gowns they’d brought in. “Marie, bring me the burgundy velvet. No, no, the blue damask.”

  The blond head flitted over to the trunk they’d brought with them and dug inside. After a moment, she pulled out a ball gown made of the deepest, most luxurious looking blue fabric. It moved like water as the woman carried it over to the modiste. Emma was nothing if not practical, but she wasn’t completely immune to the pretty things in life, and that fabric was beautiful.

  “Yes, yes, this one will do nicely.” Madam Dupree clicked her tongue. “Marie, bring over the dresses.” She turned back to Emma. “I brought a few that were already made, and I can custom fit them to you so you have something to wear while you wait on the other dresses.”

  The assistant brought over three dresses, all perfectly pretty and fashionable, but certainly not what Emma would pick out herself.

  “Acceptable to you?” the modiste asked.

  Emma nodded.

  “Let us begin,” she said. She clapped her hands, and the other women went into motion. They grabbed Emma up from her chair and withdrew measuring tapes. The following several hours passed by in a blur of measuring and gowns being held up against her. It was unacceptable if they deemed the color wrong for her skin. Madam Dupree made Emma her personal project for the day. She would be the most glamorous mistress in all of London.

  Emma wondered what all of this was costing Remy, but she didn’t dare ask. He deserved the hit to his pockets after the turmoil he caused her. She winced as one of the assistants poked her with a pin, but she said nothing. Madam Dupree seemed as if she might have a temper, and Emma didn’t want to do anything to cause one of the girls to get dismissed.

  Madam Dupree rattled off a list of items, and her assistant, Marie, diligently wrote them down. They acted as if she would require an entirely new wardrobe. Of course they didn’t know she wasn’t actually Remy’s mistress, that this was nothing more than a temporary charade.

  “You should not be hiding all your lovely curves under those frocks. I can see why you caught Lord Westbridge’s attention. He is most generous to his mistresses, too; he shall take excellent care of you,” Madam Dupree said.

  His mistresses. Meaning he’d had more than one. And this woman had clothed them. It was on her tongue to ask questions about that. How many had there been? Were they pretty? How long did he keep them? But those were foolish questions that had no place in her current situation. Gracious, this line of thinking should be reserved for jealous wives, not professional spies.

  Emma well knew she had a body that men desired, the body of a courtesan her mother had told her repeatedly. You are blessed, she’d say, use your assets, and men will always take care of you. But Emma hadn’t wanted to live her life as her mother had. She’d wanted to make her own way, take care of herself, and she was doing precisely that. Therefore, she had spent much of her adult life attempting to hide her body, to keep herself unnoticed. She had inherited her voluptuous curves from her mother. She had convinced herself it was important to hide her attributes because she needed to blend into the scenery, not truly be seen. It was what made her a good spy. Deep down, though, she knew that if she allowed herself to embrace her figure that soon after, she’d embrace the type of passionate lifestyle her mother had led. Moving from one man to the next, always searching for a wealthier protector, a more handsome lover. Her mother had never been settled, never satisfied, and she’d died alone and unhappy. Emma had never wanted to be that, the kind of woman who had to rely on men to care for her, the kind of woman who paid for said care with carnal deeds.

  Yet, here she was, getting measured for the wardrobe of a mistress.

  …

  Remy listened to Harrison drone on about never-ending paperwork he had to submit to the Prime Minister. All he knew was that they needed to get to Pennington Hall to find that damn journal. Once they found Comfry’s murderer, then Remy would know Emma was safe. Until that moment, he’d not let her out of his protection. All the more reason to find the journal as quickly as possible. The only problem was they couldn’t simply drive out to Pennington Hall and break in, especially not this weekend, which happened to be the weekend Lord Hixby hosted his annual tribute to debauchery.

  Lord Hixby was known for his degenerate ways and licentious behavior, but once a year, he hosted a house party that pushed the limits of even his loose morals. And his wife would help him pla
n the party. Needless to say, invitations were highly coveted among the male members of the ton, which meant the entire damn country would be swarming with young bucks. Remy and Emma wouldn’t be able to ride through town without someone recognizing him. Fortunately, the party provided the perfect ruse for him to be in the country.

  Unfortunately, he would have to bring Emma with him and subject her to the spectacle that was Lord Hixby’s house party. The private party was on the outskirts of London, not too far from Pennington. The event would serve as their cover. He knew that Emma, despite her experience in Paris and wherever else, was probably not prepared for such public displays of affection. His hands tensed into fists, and anger settled in his stomach like soured milk as he thought of her seducing the Comte, with his beefy hands and rounded belly. Remy had played the images over in his mind again and again since Paris, always thinking about that bastard’s hands on Emma’s perfect body.

  There was a subtle knock on the door.

  “Gentlemen, I’d like to present Miss Emma Masterson,” Madam Dupree said, and then stepped aside.

  The creature that entered the room was not the same one he’d left in his parlor. Instead of the dark wool dresses he’d seen her in, Emma now wore a pale pink confection that accented her curves instead of hiding them. She had briefly dressed like this, though not quite so revealing, on their assignment in Paris. Of course that had been France and the fashions slightly different. And no matter what her clothes, Emma had a way about her, a no-nonsense way that proclaimed she was a lady of means, a lady with purpose. Even her walk was intentional, not the slow float that most ladies favored. But this dress, this dress was everything that was right about femininity. The soft color heightened the natural pink of Emma’s lips and cheeks. The décolletage revealed her perfectly plump breasts, and he had to keep himself from staring to see if it was his imagination, or if he could actually see the color of her areolas peeking above the neckline.