Lady Despard smiled thinly. “I know what you had done to Jane. Jacob told me.”
Silence fell upon the room. The only sound, the ticking of the mantle clock.
Lady Despard waited and watched.
Finally, Diana St. John yawned, as if bored and said levelly, “So your brother felt a twinge of regret and was weak enough to confess his part in that tedious melodrama to you. My conscience is clear. I merely carried out Sir Felix’s wishes to have the rotten fruit of his daughter’s disgraceful behavior got rid of as expediently as possible.”
“It was exceedingly interesting to Jacob that you knew of Jane’s pregnancy before she had confessed her condition to Sir Felix.”
“What of it? Once she opened her legs to Salt it was no stretch of the imagination to suppose a pregnancy would ensue. After all,” she said with a small private smile, “his lordship is exceptionally virile.”
“You knew Jane’s seducer was Lord Salt when her father did not. Jane told no one. You have made it your life’s work to know all about his virility. Have you not, my lady?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lord Salt’s habits, more precisely who he has bedded and when, if he got them with child and how often, and what you did for them and others who found themselves inconvenienced.”
Diana St. John crossed to the door and wrenched it open.
“I have not the slightest idea to what you allude. You are talking goose fat, Madam! If that is all you have to say, leave before I have you bodily removed.”
Lady Despard stayed where she was.
“Betwixt you and me, my lady, brother Jacob didn’t give two testers how many whores Lord Salt had impregnated, or what you did to help rid them of their unwanted pregnancies, his lordship none the wiser. But it bothered him greatly that you overstepped the mark with little Jane, who was a virgin.”
“The creature should have thought of the consequences of her behavior before she let Salt between her thighs.”
“What was the medicinal preparation you supplied to Sir Felix?” She peered into her reticule and took out a piece of paper; this she unfolded and smiled. “Ah! That’s it! Syrup of Artem—Artemisia.” She held out the paper. “There is an address here of your apothecary on the Strand.
Diana St. John gritted her teeth. “I know his address you insolent slut. Leave! Now.”
“But I haven’t delivered Jacob’s message yet,” Lady Despard replied with a pout, putting the folded paper back in her reticule, enjoying the woman’s growing anger. When Diana St. John opened the door wider, she added with a shrug, “I don’t see why it matters now. Not after today’s events, but Jacob wanted you to know that placed with his will is a document that names your clients, females who found themselves with child, and the services you rendered them as a terminating midwife; a hanging offence for client and supplier, so brother Jacob’s attorneys tell me.”
Diana St. John kept her features perfectly composed. It was as if Lady Despard had not spoken. She certainly wasn’t about to acknowledge the accusation or the implied threat. “I have a full round of engagements tomorrow. No doubt the heady social scene of Bristol beckons you. Good night, Madam.”
Lady Despard still remained by the fireplace. “It seems to me that you are in ignorance of what occurred today in Grosvenor Square.”
“Grosvenor Square?”
“You truly have no idea what happened to Lord Salt today, my lady?”
A little of Diana St. John’s cold façade cracked. She came back into the middle of the room. “Happened?”
“The Earl of Salt Hendon was married this afternoon.”
Diana St. John laughed as if told a good joke. “Impossible!”
Lady Despard blinked at her, unable to fathom what the woman found to be amused by in such news.
“You witless creature! As if his lordship would marry with his family none the wiser. As if I would not know such a momentous occasion was to take place. There is a proper order to such things in our circle. It may be common in the gutters of Bristol—
“What is there that you don’t understand, my lady? Lord Salt was married this afternoon. I was there to witness his—”
“You? Nonsense! Why would you of all people on God’s good earth be witness to his marriage? Now I know you are talking flummery. I was at Grosvenor Square only this morning. Tuesday he is at home to petitioners. There’s always a mob of beggars at his door. And in the afternoon he’s at Parliament. He is a stickler for doing his duty, tiresomely so. He wouldn’t have time to get married on a Tuesday. Perhaps on a Thursday or a Saturday. But never on a Tuesday. He doesn’t even have the time for me, but I make certain I stay an hour; just so he remembers what’s important in life, that he has a duty to Ron and to me. Just so he knows I’m there for him…always.”
“You haven’t asked about the bride…”
“He wouldn’t marry without consulting me,” Diana St. John continued stubbornly convincing herself, ignoring the leading remark. “He doesn’t visit his mistress without me knowing about it. I can tell you when he visits and how many times he mounts his whore in a night. I make it my business to know. And if he so much as looks sideways at an eligible young female I’m there to make certain the girl takes her interest elsewhere. Luckily, his rakish reputation usually precedes him, which scares the prudish ones away. And one can’t be too careful when selecting the right woman to be his mistress,” she boasted. “She must interest him enough to distract him, but not too much that he can’t be persuaded to move on to the next diversion. She has to be unable to bear children, or at the very least not want any brats and know to come to me to rid herself of unwanted offspring, should that tiresome circumstance eventuate. You see how considerate I am of his welfare?” She pressed her shaking hands together and tried to smile. “What with looking out for his political career, which is going ahead in leaps and bounds, sitting for dreary hour upon dreary hour in the Ladies Gallery of the Lords, playing hostess to party political dinners and the like when he requires that of me, not to mention taking Ron to see him as much as possible, and the onerous task of keeping track of his love life, I rarely have a moment to myself. So it is impossible for him to find the time least of all want to marry behind my back…”
Lady Despard thought Diana St. John raving like a mad woman, and that perhaps her mind had indeed snapped. She had no idea what to say in reply to a sermon on her good works on the Earl’s behalf that clearly, even to her lax moral code, overstepped the boundaries of decency at the nobleman’s right to privacy. But in the ensuing long silence she felt she had to say something.
“You are all consideration for his welfare to be sure, my lady, but perhaps you could have saved yourself a great deal of time and bother had you just married him yourself.”
“Married him?” Diana St. John repeated, as if the question was offensive in the extreme. “Of course I want to marry him, you bloody stupid cow! I’ve wanted to marry him since I was twelve years old. But a lady does not ask a gentleman to marry her. A lady waits to be asked…”
Lady Despard was taken aback but unsympathetic. “Then you’ve missed your chance and must take comfort in the fact that you weren’t the only female destined for disappointment.”
“I’ve known him all my life and not once has he ever seriously considered the married state,” Diana St. John continued, dumbfounded. “Though four years ago he came within a flea’s foot but, fortunately, I managed to put a stop to that whim before he did something utterly rash and socially unacceptable. Whoever heard of a Sinclair marrying the daughter of a nobody squire? Of course I attribute that episode to an infatuation for a pretty face. Is that creature still as beautiful as I remember her? She had the most perfect skin, and such gloriously dark thick hair. Too thin and small breasted, of course, but some men are attracted to the type. One could forgive Salt his momentary lustful lapse but as for marriage—”
“He married Jane Despard this afternoon, my lady. And yes, she is just as beautiful as
your remembrance of her.”
Diana St. John stood as stone and stared disbelieving at Lady Despard for a long time. But as that woman merely stared back at her expressionless fear seized her. “Salt… Married? Married? Married Jane Despard?” She shuffled to the fireplace, unsteady on her slippered feet and put out a hand to the headrest of the wingchair, the other to her constricted throat. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”
“Strange how matters can take a turn,” Lady Despard said wistfully. “I should have realized that even when Sir Felix banished her, even when he forced the baby to be quickened before its time, he still loved his daughter. He always used to say Jane was the image of her mother. His first wife was granddaughter of an Irish duke, don’t you know? But she married well beneath her by eloping with Sir Felix. It was her death that started his drinking and gambling. Poor Sir Felix. Tragic. Still,” she added in a rallying tone, “he wanted nothing less than an earl for Jane and an earl was what he got with his last breath; your precious earl to be precise.”
She frowned. Diana St. John looked on the verge of a nervous collapse. “Shall I call for your maid, my lady?”
“Maid?” Diana St. John repeated, dazed.
“Such news has made you unwell, my lady. Perhaps a brandy—”
Diana St. John’s fingers gripping the back of the upholstered wingchair were white at the knuckles. This woman had been sent here to do her harm. She was lying. Yes, that was it! She was lying. This was Jacob Allenby’s way of taunting her from the grave. She glared at her visitor with menacing intent. “Did Allenby put you up to this? Did he hope to punish me with this lie?”
“It is no lie. Though, when you think about it, it is a fitting punishment for what you had done to Jane.” Lady Despard had a flash of insight. “A natural justice of sorts.”
“Justice? Ha!” Diana St. John’s mind was spinning with a mixture of denial and possibilities. “Let Salt satisfy his lust with that creature, as many times as he likes, much I care, but then watch me have the little trollop banished back to her sodden corner of Wiltshire quicker than you can spell Ranelagh.”
“But surely that defeats your purpose, my lady?” Lady Despard asked, confused. “A virile man of Salt’s age and abilities is more than capable of making love to his wife several times over on his wedding night. And we both know they can breed. In all likelihood, as you stand there mourning his marriage, he’s already impregnated her.” She smiled at her own cleverness. “Isn’t that what you wanted to avoid all those years ago? If Jane begets an heir where does that leave your son?” She tittered. “And you call me the stupid cow!”
Diana St. John was stunned, as if the reality of the wedding night had never occurred to her. She remained upright and composed until Lady Despard was unceremoniously dismissed from her sight. She then collapsed in the wingchair and put her head in her hands and gave herself up to tears of intense hatred and mounting frustration. Much later, when she was wasted of self-pity and drained of all natural emotion, she began plotting her revenge.
Salt had no idea how many hours he remained awake in the big four-poster bed, lying on his side, staring at the little leaping flames amongst the crackling logs in the deep grate of the bedchamber fireplace. He just knew it was uncomfortable on his wide shoulders. But if he moved and lay flat on his back, or turned on to his other side, there was a very real possibility he would come in contact with his sleeping wife, and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.
The nightshirt definitely helped as a deterrent. What a ridiculous article of clothing! Wide, collarless and with billowing sleeves, it felt more like a sheet with a hole cut in it for his head. No wonder he’d given up wearing them as soon as he’d left Eton. He felt as if he’d been put into adult swaddling; the linen caught round his legs and there was no way of untangling himself without lifting his entire body off the bed several times. He really couldn’t bear wearing the ridiculous thing a moment longer. Surely the bed was wide enough that he could sleep naked and be comfortable without causing a disturbance to his bride?
Decided, he slid out of bed, wrenched the nightshirt up off his wide back and over his shoulders, and flung it in disgust into a darkened corner. Satisfied to be rid of one torment, he raked his shoulder-length hair out of his eyes and slid back under the covers to lie on his back. It was such a welcome relief to evenly distribute his weight that he only managed to stare at the pleated canopy for a handful of seconds before he finally drifted off into a welcome deep sleep.
Twenty minutes later he was wide-awake.
Blissfully asleep, Jane migrated to the middle of the bed in search of warmth. It was a big bed that allowed its equally large owner to sprawl out in comfort, but without the heavy curtains drawn about the four mahogany posts to keep out the still night air, nor the use of a bed warmer to take the chill off the linen sheets, there was little comfort for Jane’s slender frame, inadequately covered as it was by a thin nightshift. Even her white stockings were of little use in keeping her warm, stopping as they did just above the knees. But she found the perfect substitute for a hot brick in the form of her husband’s warm, naked body. Tall, wide and with plenty of well-exercised muscle, he radiated heat and comfort, and on such a cold winter’s night he was the ideal bed and body warmer. The sleeping Jane happily snuggled into him and instantly returned to a state of deep slumber.
The same could not be said for her husband, who kept as still as he possibly could, eyes on the canopy, and tried his best to ignore her soft, lithe female curves. She had her pink cheek nestled against his beefy shoulder and an arm across his torso, while one shapely stockinged leg straddled a brawny thigh. She clung to him like glued paper to a wall. And as if this wasn’t enough of a distraction, her raven hair, which had escaped the confines of its long braid, fell about the pillows in a wild mane and tickled his square, unshaven chin.
Ignoring his edict to remain still beside her because his arm and fingers were tingling from inertia, he shifted his weight amongst the pillows and covers, disturbing Jane enough for her to move with him then resettle with her head now resting against his chest and an arm about his neck. There was nothing for it but to drop his arm over her.
He closed his eyes, determined to ignore her soft curves and his stiffening erection, and set his mind to recalling the goings on at Parliament that afternoon, particularly Bute’s dreary speech about troop deployments, now the war with France was concluded and the Peace about to be signed in Paris; and there was that ridiculous debate over the Commons’ adjournment for the observance of St. George’s Day on the 31st because the 30th fell on a Sunday.
Ordinarily these musings were enough to put him to sleep faster than a dose of laudanum, but Jane’s light regular breathing and the delicious distraction of her body moving ever so gently against him did nothing to dampen his ardor. And when she turned and tried to straighten her bunched up nightshift to untangle her stockinged legs, but with little success, he did the gentlemanly thing and helped her out of the flimsy linen garment. He tossed it across the room to join his crumpled nightshirt.
Half awake, she remained sitting up in bed facing him, completely oblivious to her nakedness but for her white stockings that were held fast above the knee with silk ribbons tied in neat bows, and her tumble of lustrous raven-black hair that fell about her shoulders to the small of her back in alluring disarray. With a heavy-lidded drowsy thank you and a sleepy smile she promptly snuggled down beside him again to enjoy the warmth of his body. He wasn’t sure how much more of this glorious torture he could endure.
He was about to draw up the coverlet when he couldn’t resist admiring his bride’s feminine loveliness under the glow of the crackling firelight. From stockinged toes to shapely bare thigh, from the rise of her hips to the dip in her waist and up to her small firm breasts, she was utterly arousing and completely captivating—and his. Bland speeches about peace treaties and frustrating debates about the observance of saints’ days burst like bubbles as he gently brushed a long strand of soft cu
rl from across the pale pink of her nipple and off her throat.
The scent of soap, of freshly scrubbed skin and the natural essence of her, made him hover and drink her in. She smelled as delicious as she looked, lying on her side with her hands tucked under her cheek, long black tresses falling all about her. He could almost convince himself that the intervening years had never happened and this was in truth the wedding night he had planned for them to enjoy at his Wiltshire estate. Perhaps if he kissed her the deception would be complete…
He brushed his mouth along her soft warm cheek and when she blinked and tilted her chin up to him he did what he had so very much wanted to do for four years, he kissed her mouth.
“What a lovely dream,” she murmured through half-open lids
“Yes, a dream.”
She put her arm up around his neck and drew him back down to kiss her again. “You smell nice. You always smell nice.”
He smiled. “Do I?”
She licked her top lip.
“Taste nice, too.”
He chuckled. “So do you.”
“No more talk. Kiss me.”
He obliged her, giving himself up to the luxury of a long, lingering and delightfully exploratory kiss as her mouth parted under the pressure of his. She had such soft plump lips that he wanted to go on kissing and caressing her for as long as he was able to resist entering her gloriously aroused flesh, the anticipation of what was to come almost as exciting as the act itself; for he had not kissed another woman the way he kissed Jane.
When he had forced a kiss on her that day on the Hunt two years ago, when she had trespassed onto his land, it was in the belief it would cure his want of her. That if he kissed her, held her in his arms, he would finally be done with her. But even a kiss forced upon her had merely increased his misery for it merely reaffirmed his inadequacy in wanting her. Just as these kisses now with her permission made the wanting of her excruciatingly urgent. If he did not have her there and then he was certain he would go mad.
“Touch me, Jane. Hold me.”
Salt Bride: A Georgian Historical Romance Page 10
