My Lady's Pleasure

by Julia Justiss

  Protected in a cocoon of numbness, Valeria attended the funeral several afternoons later. Even the necessity of assisting Lady Farrington, who collapsed at the churchyard and had to be carried back to her carriage, did not penetrate that soothing fog.

  With her cousin tucked up in bed and her own maid dismissed, Valeria sat alone by the flickering light of a single brace of candles in her grandmother’s sitting room.

  Her sitting room now.

  Her tightly knit calm was unraveling in a tangle of emotions, all of which she’d experienced before. She hadn’t had enough time. Though she’d come to love the crusty old lady who’d adopted her, she hadn’t expressed those feelings often enough. And though she’d deluded herself into believing she was prepared for her grandmother’s death, she now found she had no adequate defense against the stark loneliness that clawed at her.

  In one respect this loss was better than the last, she told herself, attempting to rally her depressed spirits. She knew the countess had grown to care for her, and however poorly she’d expressed it, Valeria knew the countess had realized she was loved in return.

  Valeria wandered to the bed and trailed her hand across the pristine linen, hardly able to believe her grandmother’s frail frame but valiant spirit would no longer occupy it. Could it have been only a week ago that she’d rushed here to clasp those thin gnarled fingers?

  From the one person she truly wished to see, the one whom she felt would appreciate her grief and whose mere presence would ease her sorrow, she’d heard nothing.

  Perhaps, having been exiled from his family so young, Teagan Fitzwilliams had no experience of proper mourning protocol, and thus had not thought to call or write.

  Still, she’d hoped she might catch a glimpse of him, mayhap receive an encouraging glance, during the service to which Sir William escorted her in compassionate silence. But there’d been no sign of Teagan’s handsome face or distinctive gold hair among the large crowd of mourners.

  Now, alone in this empty, echoing room, she had to conclude that Teagan Fitzwilliams, probably surmising correctly that her grandmother’s death would leave her too busy for sightseeing excursions, had dismissed her to go on with his life.

  Would he care that she’d determined to leave London? If he knew, would he have called to bid her good-bye?

  Would he have pressed her to stay?

  Suddenly she couldn’t bear the thought of quitting the city without making some final contact with him. She would pen him a farewell note, she decided—and realized with chagrin that she didn’t even know his address.

  No matter, she thought. She’d send James with the message. The servant’s grapevine knew everything, and surely he would be able to track down Mr. Fitzwilliams.

  Swiping away a tear, she went to find pen and paper.

  As Teagan left his lodgings to walk through the drizzling gloom of the London night toward Jermyn Street, his thoughts, as they had so often this past week, returned to Valeria.

  Within a day of Lady Winterdale’s death, rumors began to circulate that her granddaughter-in-law, the quiet little widow Lady Arnold, had been named her sole heiress, making her very, very rich and catapulting her in the eyes of the ton from country nobody to socially prominent in the breath it took the speaker to describe her bequest.

  Valeria wouldn’t care about that, he knew. She’d lost a friend, not a benefactress, and though she’d been bereaved before, having already experienced what she must face again wouldn’t make enduring the grief and sudden shock of loneliness any easier. Teagan had ached to be with her and offer whatever help and comfort he could.

  Realizing with angry resignation that he would almost certainly have been refused entry had he tried to attend the funeral services this afternoon, he’d merely stood under the portico of the building facing St. George’s, Hanover Square, and watched as Valeria was hustled from her carriage into the church and then back out again.

  He’d sent her a note the day of Lady Winterdale’s passing, but had received no reply. Suspecting her chaperone had not allowed it to be delivered, he’d called and been turned away three times by a stone-faced Jennings. Finally he’d come by way of the mews to the servant’s entrance and asked for Molly. James had intercepted him instead, taking him into the shadows of the garden and begging him not to put Molly’s employment at risk by asking her to smuggle a message to her mistress.

  Lady Farrington’s doing, he knew. Valeria’s personal dragon of a protector would do whatever was necessary to ensure the unworthy Teagan Fitzwilliams never succeeded in intruding his polluting presence upon her cousin again.

  Every man of birth and address in London now hanging out for a wife, as well as a miscellany of fortune hunters and ne’er-do-wells, would be flocking to her, the already-blessed Sir William at their head. The kindest, most intelligent and wittiest ones might even be worthy of her.

  Teagan might as well face the fact that his sunlit, laughter-dappled interludes with the now rich and socially prominent Lady Arnold were over for good.

  He turned the corner and looked up wearily at the light blazing from the windows of the gaming hell where tonight’s play would take place. There could be no more fitting metaphor of his world of separation from Valeria, he thought with bitter amusement, than the large, beautifully appointed marble mansion she now owned and this smoke-and-tobacco stained, brandy-redolent establishment he was now bracing himself to enter.

  He had never felt more alone in his life.

  Mercifully, as he entered the game room at Devil’s Den, Teagan found neither Rafe Crandall nor his cronies present. Relieved to be spared the necessity of summoning up a lighthearted banter he was far from feeling, Teagan settled into a quiet round of whist with a rich merchant.

  He had amassed a modest stack of winnings when the door opened and the occupants of the room stirred. Teagan looked up to see Jeremy Hartness, Earl of Montford, cross the threshold, his noble lip curled as if in disdain at the assembled patrons, most of whom would never have been allowed to set foot on the stairway leading up to White’s.

  The wealthy, powerful Earl of Montford. Teagan’s first cousin.

  For an instant Teagan sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. Not him, not tonight, his beleaguered spirit protested.

  The earl usually avoided locales in which he might encounter his disreputable cousin, which suited Teagan. When they did chance to meet, normally Teagan was poised and ready to wield his rapier wit, countering the innuendo and outright insult the earl always flung in his direction.

  Montford would certainly try to abuse him now, but tonight, Teagan had no heart for a fight.

  He bent his head and studied his cards. Perhaps Montford would simply pass by and leave him alone.

  Teagan’s downcast eyes caught the reflection off the highly polished evening shoes that halted beside his table.

  “Well, well, what have we here? It appears the normal level of scum inhabiting this sorry hell has sunk even lower. Unless I’m mistaken, ’tis that infamous Irish Captain Sharp, Teagan Fitzwilliams.”

  Slowly Teagan looked up. “Why, I believe ’tis my illustrious cousin, the Earl of Montford. Faith, and what would bring you out of your citadel at White’s? Surely you don’t wish to gain firsthand knowledge of the ills you so love to deplore in the Lords.”

  “Still playing the buffoon, I see. Gentlemen, shall we offer this broken-down exile the opportunity to earn a little coin? As a gamester lamentably lacking in skill, he seldom knows where his next meal is coming from. Perhaps we ought to show the lower orders a little compassion.”

  The gentlemen accompanying Montford looked at each other uneasily. Among them Teagan recognized several of the earl’s boon companions: Rexford, second son of a duke and married to the sister of Montford’s wife; Wexley, a wealthy but amusing fribble of good birth; and Albemarle, whose estates marched with Montford’s.

  “I…I expect we could play a few hands,” Rexford said, still looking uncertain.

  “Nay,
Cousin, can you not see they’re uncomfortable among such rough company? Faith, and I’d hate to tax the gentlemen’s wit or relieve them of their fat purses.”

  “Small chance of either,” Montford replied with a sneer. “Come, gentlemen, have a seat. You, there—out!” The earl waved a hand at the merchant, who, to Teagan’s disgust, scrambled to give up his chair to the new arrivals.

  What was Montford up to? Teagan wondered as the earl and his friends called for wine and a fresh deck of cards. Jeremy Hartness had hated him from the moment Teagan’s six-year-old foot had touched Montford land twenty-two years ago. It could not be coincidence the mighty earl had appeared at a gaming establishment he’d normally not deign to enter. Montford would never seek Teagan out without a reason, and it wouldn’t be a pleasant one.

  The earl insisted on piquet, and Teagan drew the obviously nervous Albemarle as a partner. His cousin was reasonably adept, and they split the first two rubbers. The lack of love between the two being well known, word of the match spread, and by the time they began the third rubber quite a crowd had gathered.

  Standing at the edge of it, Teagan was surprised to note, was Lord Riverton. Still grateful for the earl’s intervention on his behalf at the Insley ball, Teagan gave him a quick nod. Somehow, surrounded by this hostile group, Teagan felt better just knowing Riverton was there.

  After the commencement of the third rubber, Teagan’s partner began to make a series of such ill-judged plays that they went down heavily, nearly wiping out Teagan’s small stack of coins.

  So that was the ploy. Well, he’d have none of it.

  “Much as I hate to leave so convivial a group, I fear I have a previous engagement. Gentlemen,” Teagan said, preparing to gather up his remaining coins.

  Montford put a hand out to block Teagan’s reach. “What, leaving so soon, and after such a paltry reverse?”

  “I’ve little enough left, and nothing else to stake, as you can see. And I’m expected elsewhere.”

  “Your penny harlot can wait. Let’s have another rubber.”

  Teagan searched for the proper words to extract himself without slighting his partner. He’d not allow Montford to lead him into a verbal row his cousin could then point to as evidence of Teagan’s bad breeding.

  “I generally prefer to game on my own, without a partner,” he said at last.

  “Well, that’s easily arranged. We’ll make it whist—just you and I. And double the stakes.”

  Should he lose the first round, doubling the stakes would leave Teagan without a coin to his name. “Another time, perhaps.” He started to rise from his chair.

  Montford uttered a scornful laugh. “Always knew you were a coward. But then, one couldn’t expect proper behavior from a man whose mother betrayed her breeding by running off with her Irish groom like a common strumpet.”

  Teagan froze. Someone gasped, and the hubbub of voices in the room dwindled into silence.

  Rage filled the icy void he’d wandered in for the past week, rage at the tormentor who’d never lost an opportunity to belittle him since the day a lost, frightened boy had approached the lad introduced to him as his cousin—and got punched in the gut.

  Leaning across the table, he slapped the earl’s face. “Name your seconds.”

  In the fraught silence that followed, the earl slowly raised his fingers to rub at the red mark Teagan’s hand had left. “Nay, dueling is a custom reserved for gentlemen. I’ll not accept the challenge of a worthless guttersnipe. If you want to try to defend the honor of your whore of a mother, sit down and play. And the game’s not over until I say we’re done.”

  Icily lucid in his rage, Teagan had to acknowledge his cousin was clever. His own prowess with both sword and pistol were such that fighting his cousin was almost tantamount to the earl’s murder. But after the earl had offered him such an insult, Teagan couldn’t withdraw, no matter what form was chosen to settle the business.

  Teagan sat back down. “Deal the cards.”

  “Very well. Let’s make it more interesting and triple the stakes. Ah, have you not sufficient coin?” the earl interrupted when Teagan started to protest. “Save your worthless vowels for the tradesmen—I’ll have none of them. But you do have one item I’d not mind collecting. Let’s add that stallion of yours to the stake.” Montford turned to his friends with a laugh. “Horseflesh is the only thing of value the damned Irish have ever produced.”

  Ailainn. Ailainn, almost as much friend as mount. Teagan would rather shoot the stallion than see him go to the earl. But truly, he had nothing else.

  “So be it,” Teagan replied through gritted teeth.

  The earl smiled, a curve of the lips that held no warmth. “Done. Now, gather round, friends! Watch me send this blot on the family escutcheon back to the Dublin gutter where he belongs.”

  Chapter Eleven

  R uin. His total and irreversible ruin. That was what his cousin intended, Teagan realized.

  Having hated him for years, why had Montford chosen this precise moment to strike?

  The earl must have been keeping a closer watch on his detested half-Irish cousin than Teagan had imagined, for after the disastrous reverses of last month, his finances were at the lowest ebb they’d been since he’d begun his career as a gambler. Already pledged on the table along with Ailainn was the entire stake he had remaining.

  Though his luck had improved of late, he’d curtailed his play the last few weeks, content to quit after only modest winnings, so as to rise early enough to escort Valeria Arnold about London. A small reserve remained back at his rooms, scarcely enough to cover this month’s rent, and far less than he’d need to pay his other bills.

  Should he lose tonight, word of it would begin to circulate practically before the last card hit the table. By next morning, every merchant to whom he still owed money would be at his door, with the constable on their heels if Teagan couldn’t make good on his debts.

  Prison. Disgrace.

  If he could shake off his anger and play with all the skill he possessed—a skill he knew to be superior to his cousin’s—he’d be able to stave off that catastrophe.

  As long as capricious Lady Luck did not despise him as much as the earl his cousin.

  “Sad as I am to disappoint you, Montford,” Teagan said as the earl shuffled the deck, “you’ll ne’er be the breaking of me. Should you carry off my blunt—a most improbable event—I can always take the king’s shilling.”

  “About time you should. ’Twould end for good and all your pretensions to being a gentleman. Instead of preventing you, Grandpapa should have assisted your joining the rest of the gutter-born thieves and criminals in the army years ago. Now I, the grandson of his own blood, his heir,” the earl continued, his voice growing strident, “he maligned for not wishing to purchase a commission. But his harlot daughter’s only son? Oh no, his life was too precious to be risked fighting savages in the Americas.”

  As his cousin’s words echoed in Teagan’s incredulous ears, he scarcely noted their biting scorn. His thoughts whipped back to his searing final interview with his grandfather after his Oxford debacle. After excoriating him for bringing dishonor on his mother’s name, the old man had refused Teagan’s plea to purchase him a commission. He’d not inflict upon the army a cowardly Irish beggar’s brat, the old earl had railed, adding that if Teagan tried to enlist as a common soldier, even under a false name, Lord Montford would have him found and cashiered out. After which the old man had had him ejected from the house.

  Teagan had stalked away, vowing never again to ask his mother’s family for anything.

  Had his grandfather refused his request—as his cousin’s words seemed to suggest—not out of contempt, but from fear of losing his only link to his beloved daughter?

  “Why, gentlemen, he’s so frozen with terror,” Montford’s mocking voice recalled him, “he can’t even pick up his cards.”

  Teagan jerked his thoughts back to the present and examined his hand. Inattention now could for
ce him to flee London, perhaps require him to join the army in truth.

  Yet despite the dire choice he’d face were he to lose this round, the roiling mix of shock, doubt and disbelief, threaded through with a thin, tentative joy, forced him to voice the question churning in his head.

  “You thought Grandpapa favored me? Is that why, though you’ve always known you would have everything—the title, wealth, power—you’ve always hated me?”

  A sudden rage blazed in his cousin’s blue eyes and he leaned close, his clipped, furious words pitched for Teagan’s ears alone. “Aye, you. Spawn of a penniless Irish scoundrel. Everyone else knew what you were from the moment you arrived in England—why could Grandpapa never see it? How could he think a few paltry achievements would ever make you superior to me? ‘Why can’t you ride like Teagan?’” he said, mimicking an old man’s tones. “‘Why can’t you shoot like Teagan?’”

  With a growl Montford pushed away and slammed the first card down on the table. “Thank God the old fool died soon after your disgrace, before he was able to recall you. Though I doubt he’d be so proud of you now, were he here watching you be reduced to the stews from which you came. If,” the earl added, smiling at Teagan as he took the first trick, “you don’t get clapped in debtor’s prison first.”

  Reeling from that second revelation, Teagan struggled to focus on the game. His grandfather had been on the point of recalling him? The old man had possessed a fearsome temper, and though Teagan had never known him to apologize for words or acts uttered in anger, he sometimes quietly attempted to make amends. Had he wished to be reconciled with his only daughter’s son?

  Perhaps it had been fear of having Teagan restored to the old earl’s favor, rather than dislike, that had caused Jeremy Hartness to bar Teagan’s entry into the Montvale townhouse that long-ago day. When, having heard his grandfather had been stricken and was not expected to live, he had put aside his pride and come back to see the old man one last time.