“I am to help you achieve this?”
“Yes. I believe you have developed some talent as a portrait painter?” Nicholas’s mother had sent frequent missives over the past several years expounding her son’s talents. Those letters always ended in a request for funds so Nicholas could study with the masters. Wesley ignored them, but word had gotten to him that de Steuben had taken Nicholas under his tutelage.
“Oui. J’ai talent.”
And little modesty. Another good trait. Wesley smiled again. “The ladies of the haute ton are very vain. I am sure they would be willing to pay well for you to paint them.”
Both of Nicholas’s brows lifted. “They would pay well enough to provide you—and myself—a comfortable lifestyle in France?”
“Of course not.” Was the boy an idiot? “The pretentious creatures not only want their portraits done, they would compete to have your attendance at their silly social parties. Artistes are quite in mode these days.”
“You want me to act a personal cavalier?”
“Not quite. While a great number of the matrons would no doubt find it tempting to take you to their beds, I have only one female in mind.”
“She would have to be très belle if you want me to refrain from visiting the beds of willing women.”
“She’s pretty enough. Marissa Barclay is also the sister of the bitch who now holds my lands and the sister-in-law of the Highlander who married her. I want you to woo the girl this season.”
Nicholas frowned. “What if I do not wish to marry?”
Wesley reined in his temper. “Woo the chit, gain her trust—either we gain a large dowry and leave her at the altar or we arrange an abduction. The Cantford and Newburn estates are worth hundreds of thousands of pounds—a ransom would be quite enough to settle me comfortably and allow you a rather expansive lifestyle.”
Nicholas smirked. “Do I get her maidenhead as a bonus?”
Wesley laughed outright. The boy had inherited at least one of his tendencies. “You can rut with her as many times as you wish. She will be ruined with either plan, and we will be very, very rich.”
His son held out his hand. “When do I start?”
Wesley shook it. “The patronesses of Almack’s need to be your first clients. Once they have their likenesses done, the rest of the ton will follow suit. I will have Louis, my former solicitor, represent you in arranging a meeting with Lady Jersey.”
“Très bien.”
Wesley almost rubbed his hands together in glee. Things were going to work out just fine.
Several days passed before Lady Jersey sent word to Jamie granting an audience. He nearly snorted at the wording on the handwritten note embossed with a gold-leaf J on the front but held his contempt about its snobbishness His mission was to make sure Mari got invitations to all these doings that went on.
Not that Jamie saw much value in such. If the soiree the week before had been any indication, these things consisted of young girls in fancy dresses prancing around, waving their fans and batting their lashes not so subtly at whichever eligible bachelor wandered into their line of sight. Ever-vigilant she-wolves in even fancier gowns prowled behind them in hopes of pouncing on the prey.
Jamie sighed as he looked at the door of the Jersey townhouse, and then he rang the door pull. He would do what he needed to do.
“Thank ye for seeing me,” he said to Lady Jersey after the butler had shown him into a sitting room with rose wallpaper, pink silk drapes at the French window and brocaded chairs done in a darker shade of pink. He much preferred the muted blues and ivory of the Barclay’s parlor. The spindly, curved legs on these chairs looked even less solid than the ones at Mari’s. He doubted they could hold the weight of a man.
“Do sit down,” Lady Jersey said, gesturing to the sofa as she took one of the fragile chairs.
The sofa, covered in some cream-colored fabric, looked sturdy enough, but Jamie sat down gingerly, testing it. Once assured he would not fall through to the floor, he studied the woman in front of him. He was surprised at how young she appeared. She couldn’t be over thirty. When Miss Winslow had told him this woman was the most influential of all the patronesses, he had expected to find someone in her middle years, at least.
“It is considered quite rude to stare,” Lady Jersey said, giving him a direct look.
Jamie blinked. “Where am I supposed to look then?”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and then the corner of her mouth twitched. “Point taken. Would you care for tea?”
Jamie looked at the fragile china cups with their curvy, delicate handles and declined politely.
Lady Jersey appraised him and leaned back in her chair. “What brings you here this afternoon?”
At least she wasn’t expecting him to make idle conversation. “Miss Marissa Barclay, Lady Newburn’s sister. I gave my oath to her sister and my brother—her husband—that I would take care of Miss Barclay.”
“How does this concern me?”
Jamie took a deep breath and hoped he could explain it right, since he didn’t really understand it himself. “She was sent an invitation last week to Lady Tindale’s party. When she got there, everyone ignored her because of something I did earlier in the week. ’Twas not her fault.”
A tiny crease formed between Lady Jersey’s brows. “I had to decline Lady Tindale’s invitation due to unforeseen circumstances, but I did hear an on-dit about some girl being given the cut direct due to unseemly behavior on Bond Street. I had no idea it was Jillian’s sister.”
“’Twas my fault, nae Mari’s—Miss Barclay’s. How can people blame a lass who had nae defense?”
One of Lady Jersey’s eyebrows arched. “Just what did you do?”
Jamie felt his face warm, although whether it was embarrassment or the sudden recall of how very well Mari’s soft curves had felt against him or how nicely her bottom fit into the palm of his hand. “I told the lass to nae leave the house without me since we had news that Wesley Alton had escaped. The lass disobeyed and when I found her, I picked the wee thing up and tossed her over my shoulder.”
Lady Jersey’s eyes rounded and her mouth twitched again. “I see.”
“I set her down before we went to the street, but two ladies were standing nearby and must have spread the rumors.” Jamie leaned forward, his hands on his thighs, intent on making this woman understand. “Mayhap I should nae have done it, but why would the lass be blamed?”
“Society expects its young ladies to behave properly and with decorum.” She frowned slightly. “We expect gentlemen to behave in a proper manner as well. Picking a lady up is simply not done.”
“She didnae want to come along.” Jamie set his jaw. “The lass is stubborn.”
Lady Jersey’s lips twitched once more, and then she tilted her head to one side, eyeing him. “I find your view rather refreshing, if not entirely civilized. What would you have me do?”
“Her friend, Miss Winslow, said if Mari—Miss Barclay—would receive a…voucher…to this Almack’s place, the other matrons would make sure she gets invitations to their parties as well. Can ye see it gets done?”
Lady Jersey entwined her fingers as she lifted her hands, forefingers forming a steeple, and tapped her lips. “I always was fond of Jillian. The old marquess was not known for his kindness.” She lowered her hands. “I will do it on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That you participate in the autumn’s social events as well.”
“I dinnae really fit in.”
She smiled brightly and stood, indicating the interview was over. “You will be a breath of fresh air. And, since the Earl of Cantford is your brother, I doubt you will find yourself standing about for long. The earl created quite a stir with the ladies before our Jillian snagged him.”
Jamie groaned inwardly. Ian had to try to fit in since he’d inherited the English title, but Jamie did not need to spend more time at boring, crowded affairs with silly girls and hawk-eyed mamas. He had no desir
e to take part in the Marriage Mart either. It would be a long time before he was ready to settle down.
He sighed. He was at fault for Mari’s being cut. If he were the ticket that would put her back into Society’s good graces, then this was what he must do. He nodded his acceptance.
“Good.” Lady Jersey clapped her hands, and the butler immediately appeared in the open doorway to show him out. “I had a young French portrait painter—quite a courtly young man—call on me to ask for an introduction to some of the ton’s matrons as well. I suspect this will turn out to be quite an interesting Little Season.”
“This is all quite unnecessary,” Mari repeated as she waited on the front steps for the carriage to be brought around. No one in the group surrounding her gave any indication they even heard. Effie’s mouth was set in a tight line, Aunt Agnes was frowning and Jamie whistled as if he didn’t have a care in the world. What was he so happy about anyway? He’d looked smug as a cat who’d discovered a way into a creamery since yesterday afternoon when he’d returned from wherever he had been.
“I am only going to do a bit of shopping. Effie and a footman are all I need.”
No one answered her as the landau rolled around the corner and came to a stop in front of them. One of the footmen leaped to the ground to open the carriage door and let down the steps. Effie and Aunt Agnes crowded behind Mari, settling themselves on either side of her and forcing Jamie to take the opposite seat. Mari would have teased the women about being overly protective, but neither of them looked to be in a particularly good humor. Effie’s nose was probably out of joint having an entire entourage accompanying them. Aunt Agnes’s grim countenance bore testimony to the fact that she was taking her job as chaperone seriously.
Did either of them seriously expect Jamie to take advantage of her? Mari sighed. No one was taking any chances on another debacle happening in public.
None of this would have been necessary if Jamie hadn’t insisted on coming along.
The landau was a roomy carriage, but the tips of Jamie’s boots nearly touched the hem of her skirts. They weren’t fashionable Hessians, but made of softer leather, more like doeskin, that wrapped around his ankles and up his calves under the trousers—he called them trews—he wore. They weren’t the popular pantaloons favored by Beau Brummel’s crowd, but their snug fit clearly defined muscular thighs that were splayed at the moment, revealing a rather distinct bulge at their apex.
Mari’s face flamed as she realized where she was looking. She glanced up to find Jamie’s whisky-colored eyes twinkling in amusement. She looked quickly out the window before either her aunt or Effie took notice.
Jamie peered out his window too. “Are ye interested in the scenery, lass?”
She didn’t think her face could get any hotter. Jamie certainly was not referring to the townhouses they were passing, all of which looked much alike. Her butterflies fluttered wildly from their roost in her stomach. Drat the man. How could he rattle her just by sitting there?
“The scenery in many parts of London is interesting.”
He grinned. “Aye. Some parts are more interesting than others.”
Mari’s cheeks burned. She was going burst into flames. She prayed neither her aunt nor Effie caught the innuendo in Jamie’s deep baritone. The man was truly a rogue.
When the carriage stopped on Bond Street, she nearly tumbled from it in relief. She almost forgot why she wanted to go shopping. Oh, yes. She needed some ribbons and lace to spruce up the day dresses she’d brought from Newburn. Mari set off, Effie and Aunt Agnes walking on either side, a footman and Jamie trailing behind. She felt like she was surrounded by guards. Maybe if she loitered at nearly every shop along the way Jamie would get bored and decide not to escort her again.
Two hours later, even Mari was tired of traipsing in and out of shops, although Jamie seemed cheerfully energetic. He’d even given her unsolicited advice in several purchases. What was wrong with him?
“I believe I am ready to return home,” she said after they came out of a milliner’s shop with a bonnet she didn’t need.
“Ye missed one shop, lass.”
Mari frowned. She didn’t think he’d notice she had bypassed Madam Dubois. “I really do not need to order a gown.”
“I think ye do. That blue material ye looked at would look good on ye.”
She stared at him. He’d been so angry that day, yet he’d noticed what she was looking at? She wasn’t ready to face Madam Dubois though.
“It is not necessary.”
“Aye. It is.” Jamie took her elbow and guided her past two doors to the shop. Aunt Agnes frowned and Effie huffed her displeasure, but they followed along.
The shopkeeper’s eyes widened as they entered. Mari wished the floor would suddenly develop a hole in which she could be swallowed. No such luck.
“How…how can I be of assistance?” Madam Dubois asked nervously, her eyes darting around as though looking for a defensive weapon.
Jamie did not seem to notice, flashing the woman his dimpled smile. “I think Miss Barclay was planning to order a gown the day she tripped and I helped to set her back on her feet.” He stepped slightly closer to the woman, his eyes intent. “Ye do remember the incident happening like that?”
Madam Dubois looked confused, and then a glint appeared in her eyes as she returned his look. “Oui. I remember. It was most chivalrous of you to assist the lady.” The woman smiled brightly at Mari. “I believe it was the blue silk you were interested in, mademoiselle?”
Mari nearly gaped at Jamie as the shopkeeper led her away. How—? Maddie must have talked with him, and he hadn’t mentioned it. Mari had really thought he wouldn’t go along. She suddenly wanted to turn and throw her arms around Jamie’s neck in gratefulness.
And then she remembered the last time their bodies had touched—while she was slung over his shoulder in this very shop. Her cheeks warmed again, and an even hotter heat pooled low in her belly.
Chapter Seven
Jillian sensed something was wrong as soon as she set foot in the great hall where everyone broke the morning fast. She had overslept again. Ian was royally spoiling her because of the bairn. Although another part of the reason was his leaving her totally satiated with his leisurely lovemaking each morning.
Even though a fire burned in the large hearth closest to the dais and some sunlight trickled in through the narrow slitted windows, the room had a chill to it that had nothing to do with stone floors or stone walls. Her husband looked anything but satiated at the moment. Due to the lateness of the hour, the massive room was empty except for Ian, Duncan and Broc—two of her least favorite people. Their glowering faces did not portend well.
Ian looked up from the parchment he held and forced a smile as she approached the table. “Would ye like something to eat?”
Jillian shook her head. Although she was well into her pregnancy, she still did not care to eat as soon as she got up. The pungent smell of herring—a breakfast dish she still had not become accustomed to—made her stomach slightly queasy. “I can get something later. What is wrong?”
He didn’t mince words. “Wesley has escaped from Bedlam.”
The air left her lungs. Feeling lightheaded suddenly, she reached for the table’s edge. Ian leapt up to steady her and pulled out a chair. “Och, what an eejit I am for telling ye like this.”
“You are not an idiot. I…I am fine. It was just a bit of a shock.”
“One ye didnae need in yer condition.”
She managed a faint smile. “I think the bairn will survive.” Ian frowned, and she squeezed his hand. “Really. I am fine. Tell me what the letter says.”
“’Tis from Jamie. The devil escaped a little more than a fortnight ago.”
“If Wesley has not been seen, perhaps he caught a ship to the Continent.”
“I dinnae ken. It took the messenger a sennight to get here.”
“You do not think Wesley would attempt to come here, do you?”
“If h
e did, he would be shot on sight.”
“But you cannot—”
“This is the Highlands,” Duncan interrupted. “We have our own way of taking care o’ things.”
“Nae like yer mad King George or that fat-ass prince who prances around in fancy clothes,” Broc added with a sneer.
Jillian didn’t bother to remind them Scotland and England had been united since the 1600s or that the mad king was also their liege. To Duncan and Broc, the battle at Culloden was still a fresh insult, even though the battle had taken place seventy years ago.
“Dinnae fash, lass. I dinnae think the mon would be stupid enough to venture here,” Ian said.
“You are still upset, though. Surely, since Jamie is aware of the situation, he will have everyone at Newburn and Cantford be on the alert.”
Duncan snorted and Broc glared at her. Jillian frowned. “What is it?”
Ian laid the letter down. “Jamie is not at the estates. He is in London.”
“Whatever for? We left all the paperwork in order. There should be no need of a solicitor or—”
“’Tis yer sister’s fault,” Duncan interrupted again. “She hied off.”
Ian sent him a stern look. “Enough.”
Jillian’s gaze returned to Ian. “Why would Mari be in London?”
“Jamie says she wanted to do something called the Little Season. Do ye ken what that is?”
Jillian groaned. Mari was flighty and headstrong, partially through Jillian’s own fault. She had been eight when their mother died birthing Mari and their father had taken to drinking and gambling. Until he committed suicide several years later and Aunt Agnes took them in, Jillian tried to be a mother to Mari as much as a sister. Unfortunately, she let her little sister have her way far too many times.
“A number of parties and balls take place in October and November while Parliament is still in session and the ton is in Town. I have no idea why Mari decided she needed to attend. I promised her I would return in the spring to chaperone her.”
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