by Thea Devine
A tightrope walk at the very least.
And if that was all it took to be numbered on Wick's list of worthies, what would happen once any of them was subject to
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his private standard? What would a man like Wick require—in private—of a woman he might choose to wed?
Everything...
Meaning ... ?
Everything.
And there were dozens of women perfectly prepared to give him that.
Whatever that might mean.
Was she one of them?
But that would be rewarded; he had publicly committed himself to marrying some one. Whatever the means and mode of him choosing a bride, he would her wed, and he would do so on a public stage.
Fifty thousand a year smooths over many a man's sins ...
It wasn't the money. It was a cause—Julia's cause—and that of dozens of other innocents whom he had seduced into his depraved world.
And was it—just a little—flirting with that forbidden world?
She took a deep breath and ...
"There you are, my pretty." She whirled to find Ellingham practically breathing down her neck. "I've been trying to effect an introduction for this hour. And here I have my Lady Cavendish herself finally, come to my rescue."
Lady Cavendish was standing behind him, lavish in satin and lace, and a headdress that almost brushed the chandelier. He pushed her forward, and she took Jenise's hand, and made the introduction. "Mr. Ellingham, Miss Trowbridge. Miss Trowbridge, of course, is the daughter of Sir Osbert of the shipping company. There you go, my dear."
"And so here we are," Ellingham murmured as Lady Cavendish retreated. Banalities first, to see if the morsel even had any wit or style. "Such a crush."
Jenise froze. The moment was at hand and all Mr. Ellingham had in the way of conversation was the merest commonplace comment?
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What was the game? And there most certainly was a game. What, by that question, was Ellingham seeking to discover? That she was as insipid as the rest of the marriage-minded mice?
That would gain her nothing, she saw at the instant. She must set herself apart, she must be herself, or at least a version of the outspoken self she was in private.
Private again. Everything meaningful—and illicit—was done in private.
She girded herself. "Oh, it is a crush indeed. It begs the question why you are even here, Mr. Ellingham."
Bold baggage. The gleam was there. A certain spirit. And those creamy, dreamy breasts... he would lick that faint whiff of vinegar in her.
"You are not so ill informed you do not know the circumstances of my societal to-ing and fro-ing, Miss Trowbridge."
"Not in the least. You are in want of good company. I completely comprehend, Mr. Ellingham. It is hard to secure in any circumstances. So of course you must troll among the best people in town to find it."
Clever morsel. "I do believe I have," Ellingham said appreciatively. Wick would appreciate an immaculate who could bandy words.
"You do me too much credit, Mr. Ellingham, for I can see that you've been fair taken in by my feminine attributes. If you could but look past that, you would strongly desire more scintillating conversation which my bosom, I am sad to say, cannot provide."
"I'm not so sure of that," Ellingham retorted. "But I hardly can ask for that privilege on first meeting. We are still yet strangers, so come. Take a turn with me around the room and we shall gossip about everyone we see."
Or he would, she thought, as she placed her hand on his arm. So far, no gaffes. But now what? Dear heaven, now what? "And so we dance a quadrille across the ballroom, Mr. Ellingham," she said tranquilly, "and do-si-do with whom we will."
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"I only wish to waltz you in," Ellingham said as they paced slowly around the perimeter of the dancers.
"How droll. I am but a wealthy sea merchant's daughter. What have I done to excite your interest?"
"No, no, no, Miss Trowbridge. Don't go missish on me. You know exactly the circumstances of my interest."
"So I do, Mr. Ellingham. Who can help but know in this tattletale climate."
He smiled faintly. "Yes. Who can help ... ? So you will let me have a private word with you?"
Private—again. Her heart started pounding. The moment was at hand. Her playful plain speaking intrigued him. At least enough so that he was blunt with her.
And now what? What? Could she go the course?
"To say what, Mr. Ellingham? That I am so desirable, you can't help yourself, you must steal a kiss? Sample the wares and then report back to he-who-cannot-take-the-time-in-his-arrogance to vet the one he might choose to marry? I think not, Mr. Ellingham."
There—she had stepped well over that fine line she tread, rejecting his advance, and wanting, needing, dreading to be among those in consideration.
And she didn't fool him either, with her indignation.
"I think you protest too much, Miss Trowbridge. Come—here we are at the cloakroom. A word with you only, you shall see my hands at all times."
She allowed him to lead her into the brightly lit room.
"And so here we are, Mr. Ellingham, toe to toe. What is it you find necessary to say away from the crowd and crush of the ballroom?"
"I need to say. Miss Trowbridge, that you are beautiful."
"Pointless for you to say, Mr. Ellingham. I know that."
Oh, he liked that. A goddess should be imperious and sure of her allure. And yet—a virtuous vestal she was, with just a tremor in her hand as she faced him down.
"Are you interested?" he asked bluntly.
"In?"
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"Don't be coy. It does not become you, nor does it square with the spit and candor of your true person. I won't joust with you, Miss Trowbridge. I've never once asked a one in consideration so frankly, so soon. But I've seen your mettle. You've passed the test. So—shall I? Add you to my list?"
Oh Lord... too soon, too successful. How had this happened? And yet—
"And what exactly was the test?" she asked, amazed that her voice was not strangled with her dismay.
"Whatever I wish it to be at any given moment," he an
swered, his voice hard. "Yes or no, Miss Trowbridge. I have
not much time to complete the list. You came here tonight for
a reason. You've accomplished your goal. You have only to ac
cept your fate." 4
A stone-hard coldness washed over her. He had put it so well. She was in just the place she could waffle no longer.
Her plan. Her fate. Her folly.
She had willingly put herself over the line, and now she had no choice.
She lifted her chin. "How perceptive you are, Mr. Ellingham. Of course, the answer is yes."
******************
And now, she must wait. Wick would send for her, for all the chosen ones, very soon. And this was the beauty of the plan: that none of the three would be known outside of his circle of friends, and that whatever means Wick chose to evaluate them was his design alone, and then the certainty that the two who ultimately were not chosen would not be willing to confess it and risk public ridicule.
So the public game was over. Speculation ran rampant as to who had made the list. Ellingham had been seen talking in private to a dozen likely candidates. Every one of them admitted it, no one said whether she was among the chosen.
It was as if they had all banded together and made the determination that no one would come forth at the expense of the other.
A different kind of sisterhood of silence.
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The fun was over. The wait had begun.
"The man is demonic," Jenise said one rainy afternoon as she and Julia played piquet in the blue room. "What is it meant to do but incite one's anger ..."
"Or anticipation," Julia said softly.
"Anticipation of what? Standing toe to toe with
the bull and being gored and gutted in the process? It is a monster, pure and simple, and it deserves to die."
Their mother, however, was ecstatic at the turn of events. "And so I told you," she said complacently. "What man of refinement and sense could not be taken by your beauty and your intelligence?"
"What? Ellingham? What is he but a puppet, mouthing all that Wick puts into his head."
"You will intrigue Wick every bit as much as you did Mr. Ellingham," her mother said. "I know."
Oh, but what her mother did not know—or chose not to know, Jenise thought. And what Wick knew was beyond comprehension altogether.
The summons came two weeks later, as prim and proper as an invitation to a ball. The vellum on which it was penned was thick, creamy, clotted with compliments and assurances that Miss Jenise Trowbridge, invited to a country weekend at Holcombe in the company of several other friends and acquaintances, would be properly chaperoned by his Madam Mother, a stickler for manners and propriety, who would be in strict attendance at all times.
"And so it begins," Jenise whispered. "And where it will end, no one can know...."
******************
Holcombe Manor was the stuff of gothic fiction—all stone walls, thick wooden beams and buttresses, and slitty little windows into which daylight could not possibly infiltrate.
All of a piece for Wick, Jenise thought as her carriage barreled up the long winding drive to the manor. She was by herself, with trunks full of dresses and embellishments and adornments she was certain she would not need, and which
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The fun was over. The wait had begun.
"The man is demonic," Jenise said one rainy afternoon as she and Julia played piquet in the blue room. "What is it meant to do but incite one's anger ..."
"Or anticipation," Julia said softly.
"Anticipation of what? Standing toe to toe with the bull and being gored and gutted in the process? It is a monster, pure and simple, and it deserves to die."
Their mother, however, was ecstatic at the turn of events. "And so I told you," she said complacently. "What man of refinement and sense could not be taken by your beauty and your intelligence?"
"What? Ellingham? What is he but a puppet, mouthing all that Wick puts into his head."
"You will intrigue Wick every bit as much as you did Mr. Ellingham," her mother said. "I know."
Oh, but what her mother did not know—or chose not to know, Jenise thought. And what Wick knew was beyond comprehension altogether.
The summons came two weeks later, as prim and proper as an invitation to a ball. The vellum on which it was penned was thick, creamy, clotted with compliments and assurances that Miss Jenise Trowbridge, invited to a country weekend at Holcombe in the company of several other friends and acquaintances, would be properly chaperoned by his Madam Mother, a stickler for manners and propriety, who would be in strict attendance at all times.
"And so it begins," Jenise whispered. "And where it will end, no one can know...."
Holcombe Manor was the stuff of gothic fiction—all stone walls, thick wooden beams and buttresses, and slitty little windows into which daylight could not possibly infiltrate.
All of a piece for Wick, Jenise thought as her carriage barreled up the long winding drive to the manor. She was by herself, with trunks full of dresses and embellishments and adornments she was certain she would not need, and which
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her mother insisted a well-bred, well-ordered houseguest must have.
There was a certain naivete in the way her mother had approached her country-house weekend. A certain blocking of the realities of what Wick was about. A certain trust that all would be as he had promised in his invitation.
But nothing was certain with Wick. Everything with him had solely to do with his depraved whims. Getting a wife did not eliminate his vaunted immorality from the equation. It merely sank it to another level.
She comprehended that, and that her innocence was no drawback to him in his mission to get a wife. But it would not constrain him, either. She must be prepared for anything, everything, be prepared to surrender every part of herself in the name of vengeance.
Whatever it might mean. Whatever it entailed.
The carriage drew up before the thick, worn, wooden doors of Holcombe Manor just as the sun was setting. It had been a tiresome trip, given that she was alone with her musings and forebodings, and in one respect, she was relieved to finally have arrived and to pitch herself into the reality of the situation.
Ellingham met her at the door. "So here you are, Miss Trowbridge, full of spit and fire, I hope. I know the journey is wearying, and you shall have an hour to refresh yourself before dinner. Your rooms are situated on the gallery, and here is Mrs. Wilton to show you there."
Mrs. Wilton was as long and thin and sour as a pickle, and she wordlessly led Jenise up the stone steps to the gallery as a footman followed with her trunks, and to the second door to the right of the steps.
It was a commodious room with a four-poster bed of indeterminate age immaculately swathed in virgin white bed dressings, and heaped with pillows. There was a fireplace, with a fire already lit, and a comfortable upholstered chair beside it; opposite, there was a small mahogany table and chair next to the bed, a chest of drawers against one wall, and a massive ar-
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moire on the other. A fitted carpet covered the floor overlaid with two other smaller carpets by the bed and fireplace.
And there was one other door, Jenise discovered, which led to a dressing room fitted out with a mirrored table on which there was a glass tray with an assortment of empty jars, a matching chair, a built-in wardrobe, and a washstand.
"I'll send a maid and a footman with some hot water," Mrs. Wilton said with not a nuance of expression on her face.
But at least there were other presences in the house besides the guests, Jenise thought with some relief as she began to unpack. And Ellingham, for whatever buffer he might supply.
And Max Bowen, she discovered as she came down to dinner, an hour later; and the two other favored ones who were slightly known to her, and who looked at her with distinct animosity as she sat herself at the table.
"Just a nice cozy diner ΰ cinq," Ellingham murmured, rubbing his hands together. "I will make you known to each other by first names only. We're all friends here, after all, and discreet as death. Nothing will ever go beyond these walls."
He looked around meaningfully and saw they understood precisely, and that no one of them would ever confess to being considered or rejected by Wick. They would keep the silence. "Exactly." He nodded as if they were children, Jenise thought resentfully, who had assimilated an important lesson.
"Now do let me introduce you..." He waved at the blonde with the sweet, ingenuous face who immediately looked relieved as he pronounced her name, "Innocenta. And this—" a willowy brunette dressed in the height of fashion— "Virtuosa."
Virtuosa smiled a secre^ittle smile as Ellingham pointed to Jenise. And here ... is Chaste."
"I like that name better than mine." Innocenta pouted.
There was always one, Ellingham thought, who didn't immediately get onto the game. Always one who was the most selfish and wanted everything everyone else had for herself.
Well, he had thought, perhaps this one might do for
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Wick—a creature as grasping and self-indulgent as Wick himself.
He ignored her. "Ladies ..." he said benignly and reached forthe bellpull, "let's eat."
******************
And she had thought there would be more to it than that, this first meeting. Jenise was not a little surprised that the first order of business was food, but then, she found, she was almost ravenous, as the footmen began to serve.
Or was Ellingham fattening them up for the kill?
She almost lost her appetite on that thought. Still, she did justice to an ample but plai
n bill of fare that included a first course of soup, fish, savouries, and rice casserole, removed with breast of lamb and sweetbreads, wine sauce, accompanying vegetables, and finished off with cheeses, apple pudding, and plum pie.
There was too much wine flowing, and too little sense at work; Virtuosa and Innocenta helped themselves liberally, a fact not lost on Ellingham.
"Now two of my pretties are nice and warm, and ready to begin," he said. "Wick awaits, did you not guess? One by one, you will come with me to the library for the first meeting with he who would marry one of you."
He eyed Virtuosa and Innocenta speculatively. Who was the most foxed on two small glasses of wine? The pouty Innocenta. Let her drink some more while Wick had his fun. He motioned to Virtuosa, who rose gracefully from the table with her goblet and followed him into the shadows.
"And now what?" Innocenta demanded. "He leaves us alone. He leaves us together to piddle and pout? I think not.
Don't you think not, Chaste, or don't you think altogether?'
"You're a fool, Chaste. You cannot compete with me. And Virtuosa—pablum-mouth—will charm our Wick for certain with her nonexistent conversation." She jumped up from the table and began pacing—and drinking. "What is happening in
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that room? I would give—no ..." she amended craftily, "the point is not to give; the point, my dear Chaste-mouth, is to get. You must leave and I must get. You see the simplicity of it. And—well, yes ..." She waved her goblet at Jenise. "You may take your turn, but it's useless, I will tell you. I mean to have him, whatever he might require me to do."
Whatever the price. Whatever he might require—in private. ... What if he was watching this tawdry display? What was he demanding of Virtuosa even as they waited, and Innocenta lurched around the room proclaiming her superiority? What must either of them do to pique his interest and make him come to point?
And how far were they willing to go to accomplish that?
How far was she willing to go to exact revenge?
