by Jane Feather
"No, of course not," Judith said. "He doesn't even like it when Harriet goes into a card room. But it's different with me."
Marcus wondered how Harriet would feel once she came face to face with the exclusivity of her husband's relationship with his sister. "It would seem that Sebastian and I have similar attitudes to what's appropriate for a wife," he observed. "I could wish that occasionally he'd remember that as well as being his sister, you're also my wife.
"He doesn't forget that. But neither does he make decisions for me," Judith pointed out. "As it happens, going to Ranelagh was my idea." Not entirely true, but near enough.
"I would have escorted you if you'd asked." His hands slipped from her shoulders to clasp her arms. "Do you prefer Sebastian's company to mine, lynx?"
"No, how could you think such a thing?" She was genuinely distressed at such an interpretation, but the sticky threads of deceit were entangling her again. She couldn't tell the truth about the evening, but without the truth, it appeared that she had chosen her brother's company over her husband's-indeed, had deliberately excluded her husband.
"It's very easy to think such a thing," he said quietly. "I didn't think it would have amused you," she improvised, with a touch of desperation. "London is still quite new to us and we're accustomed to thinking of different things to do in new places. We just fell into an old habit."
He let it go, although the ring of truth was somehow lacking despite the plausibility of the explanation. "Very well, let's leave it at that." His hands slipped from her arms.
It sounded rather grudging to Judith. She turned back to the bed, ebullience vanished in a fog of dejection. "Just a minute."
Something in his voice banished melancholy. She paused, one knee on the bed, the other foot on the floor. "There remains the small matter of penance." Judith looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes now sparkling with anticipation. "Yes, my lord?" Eagerness laced the dulcet tones.
He trod over to the bed. "I think I'll let you choose your own… later. For the moment, kneel on the bed." Reaching across her, he pulled the pillows out, tucking them against her belly as he unfastened his britches.
Judith laughed softly, drawing her nightgown up to her waist, falling forward over the piled pillows. "A fitting end to a ribald evening, sir."
"Abominable woman," he said, one hand in the small of her back as he guided himself within her. "If I had a grain of common sense, I'd banish you to Berkshire, where you couldn't get up to any more mischief." Judith had no immediate rejoinder and shortly was beyond any coherent verbal response, although her body spoke to him with perfect fluency.
26
"So what now?" Agnes said, looking up from the hothouse roses she was arranging in a wide crystal bowl. "Are you still set on revenge?"
"Certainly," Gracemere said. "It was annoying, meeting Davenport like that, although I wish you could have seen the pair of them. They couldn't see straight." He smiled contemptuously at the memory. "They're such simpletons, I almost wonder if they're worth the trouble I'm taking."
Agnes tossed a fading bloom into the basket at her feet. "One must never underestimate, Bernard."
"No," he agreed, taking snufle "And I have every intention of holding Judith to her wager. She will pay her debt at a private dinner at a place of my choosing. And this time there'll be no possibility of unwanted company.
You will see her with me and you'll accidentally let the gossip fall within Carrington's earshot. Since his wife's an eager participant in this amusing liaison, he won't be able to challenge me over it, without exposing both of them to public ridicule, so he'll have to swallow it… and his pride."
"It'll ruin his marriage," Agnes commented with a cynical laugh.
Gracemere shrugged. "But of course. The main object of the exercise, really. I don't believe Judith cares a whit for him, anyway. She's all too eager to flout his authority." He smiled. "Where shall I arrange this intimate little dinner, my love? Somewhere rather more compromising than Ranelagh this time."
"A private parlor in a small hotel on Jermyn Street," Agnes suggested casually. "I'm sure you know such a one."
Gracemere gaped at her, then roared with laughter. "You never cease to amaze me, my dear. A brilliant idea. I'll entertain Carrington's wife in a whorehouse."
"It is an amusing idea," Agnes agreed. Her lip curled. "There's something about that little bitch… I don't know what it is, but whenever I'm in the same room with her, I feel she's trouble." She shook her head. "She never misses an opportunity to do or say something to annoy me. And I don't understand why I should allow myself to react to her insolence. But I can't help myself." She sucked a bead of blood off her finger where a rose thorn had pricked. "I shall really enjoy watching you humble her."
"Then you shall do so, my love," Gracemere said. "I shall entertain Carrington's wife in a house run by a lady of the night, and I'll lay odds his naive bride won't understand where she is."
"Therein lies the cream of the jest," Agnes assented.
"She'll flutter and feel it's all most improper, but she'll have no idea how grossly improper… how could she?"
"How indeed?" Gracemere went to the secretaire. "Come and help me compose my second invitation. It needs to be a little more inviting-or do I mean compelling-than the last, but still couched in terms of calling in a debt of honor. Whatever second thoughts she may have had, she'll not renege when it's put in those terms. She likes to think of herself as a true gamester, willing to play high and lose with panache." He laughed, shaking his head. "I wonder where the Davenports sprang from."
"Oh, as you said before, one of those hybrid foreign families." Agnes drew up a chair to the secretaire. "Now, let's compose this compelling missive."
Half an hour later the earl sanded the single sheet, folded it, and sealed it with his signet ring. "You struck just the right note, my love: a challenge to the chit's willingness to play high and take risks. She'll not be able to resist the temptation to prove herself daring and reckless, pursuing an amusing adventure to pique her husband."
Agnes smiied. "And once you've finished playing games with the Devlins, what do you intend with Harriet?"
"Simple abduction. She's always in your company. You'll bring her to me in a hired chaise. Perfectly straightforward, my love."
"You'll marry her out of hand. ' Agnes nodded. "One night is all it will take to persuade her to go before a preacher in the morning. And once she's married, then her parents will be able to do nothing. They'll want to put the best light upon it, for fear their precious reputation be ruined. We'll have our thirty thousand, my dear, and the story will be of a runaway love match-the exigencies of a powerful passion, et cetera, et cetera." Her cynical laugh hung in the air, and Gracemere recognized as always that when it came to cold-blooded assessments of human nature, his mistress matched him step for step.
The invitation arrived in conventional fashion with Judith's chocolate the following morning. The dinner was set for that very night, the arrangements crisply laid out. She would find an unmarked chaise awaiting her as before. The destination was a secret, but it was one the earl thought she would enjoy, appealing as it would to her sense of adventure and the gamester within her.
Judith crumpled the sheet with a soft exclamation. There was no way out of this one. She couldn't refuse without annoying Gracemere and, as before, she couldn't afford to annoy him, not this close to the endgame.
She dressed and went in search of Marcus. He was in his book room, closeted with John, but looked up, his eyes crinkling with pleasure at her entrance. "Good morning, my love. What can I do for you?"
Sweet heaven, how she hated lying to him. She smiled at John to take her mind off what she was saying. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm going to a very private dinner this evening."
"Oh," Marcus said, putting down his quill. "Am I not invited?"
"No, I'm afraid not." She turned her eyes to him, hoping she was now in control of her features. "It's all women, you see."
"Just so. I'm sure I won't be late, though."
John coughed apologetically. "Excuse me, your ladyship, but you and Lord Carrington are engaged to the Willoughbys this evening-the musicale," he said. "The harpist, if you recall?"
"Oh, I'd completely forgotten," Judith said. "And I do so want to spend the evening with my friends. Marcus… would you mind?"
He couldn't resist the appeal in those golden brown eyes. "I must go alone, it would seem."
"You are a prince among husbands," she said, reaching across the desk to kiss him. John averted his eyes.
"I shall expect compensation," Marcus said.
"That goes without saying." She went to the door. "And as I said, I won't be late."
In fact, if she managed matters aright, she wouldn't be out of the house for much more than an hour. Bernard Melville, Earl of Gracemere, was not going to enjoy the clandestine company of his enemy's wife… whatever he might think.
Thus resolved, Judith felt a little better about her lie. Circumstances were working in her favor, since none of her friends had been invited to the musicale. The Willoughbys were an elderly couple who didn't go about much in Society, but were friends of Marcus's mother and he had felt obliged to accept the invitation to a small and select gathering of elderly music lovers. By the time he came home, his wife would be virtuously abed, having spent the greater part of the evening irreproachably by her own fireside.
She dressed with care that evening, choosing a gown with an unusually high neckline and arranging her hair in a demure braided coronet. Her conduct tonight would be the antithesis of flirtatious. Before leaving, she sent Millie on an errand to the kitchen that greatly puzzled the abigail. However, questions were not invited so she fetched what was required and saved her curiosity for later in the servants' hall, when her ladyship's strange request could be discussed at length.
Judith dropped the small package into her reticule, adjusted the shawl about her shoulders, and went downstairs. The Willoughbys kept early hours and Marcus had already left.
The unmarked chaise awaited her on the same corner as before, and as before the earl was inside to greet her.
"Good evening, Bernard," Judith said cheerfully. "I must say, sir, that you don't give much notice of your invitations."
"Adventures are supposed to take one by surprise," he said. "And you do like adventures, don't you, my dear Judith?"
Judith allowed a little giggle to escape her. "Life would be very dull without them, sir."
"Just so. And the so-staid husband… how was he disposed of for the evening?"
Judith gritted her teeth. "Marcus had his own engagement," she said. "Where do we go, Bernard?"
"Ah, that's a surprise," he told her. "I trust you'll be pleased."
"I'm sure I shall." She clapped her hands softly, her eyes glowing in the dim light of the chaise. "I like surprises as much as I like adventures."
"Splendid," he said, reaching across to take her hand. "I hope this one will be all that you expect."
"And I hope the evening will be all that you expect, Bernard," she said, smiling a little shyly.
He carried her hand to his lips.
The chaise drew up in front of a tall town house, its door lit by a lantern, light glowing from behind curtained windows. Judith stepped out and looked curiously up and down the street. "Where are we?"
"Jermyn Street," Gracemere said casually. "A small and very discreet hotel I frequent on occasion. Come, my dear." He escorted her to the door that was opened by an elderly butler in a powdered wig.
"My lord… madam." He bowed. "Madame is in die salon."
Judith allowed herself to be ushered into the salon. She looked around at the gilt moldings, the heavy satin draperies, the deep armchairs, and the women in their elegant gowns with just a little something out of place. The air was heavy with the fragrance of musk, a decadent, overblown scent, and Judith knew immediately what Gracemere had brought her to. She'd been in such places before: the luxurious bordello catering to the wealthy and whatever tastes they might have. There was nothing these women wouldn't do if the price was right.
She glanced sideways at her escort and saw the smile flickering on the cruel mouth as he greeted their ostensible hostess. He wouldn't think she knew what the place was, she realized. After all, what respectable lady of the ton would? He wasn't to know that her father had had many good friends who ran places like this one-friends who would provide free lodging on occasion to the impoverished gamester and his children… lodging and comfort to the lonely widower. Her father had never been short of female company, Judith remembered. Something about him appealed to women. She suspected he'd never paid for the comfort offered him in places such as this. Once his children had reached a certain age, however, George Davenport had stopped accepting this kind of hospitality, but Judith's memory was crystal clear.
Madame greeted her courteously, but her eyes were shrewdly assessing and she too seemed to share in the jest with Gracemere. They obviously knew each other well.
"Your private dining room is ready, my lord," she said. "Bernice will show you up." She beckoned to a young woman in crimson satin, who came over immediately. Her gown was rich, the fall of lace at the neck delicate, but the lace was slightly awry, and the neckline so low that it barely covered her nipples.
"This way, sir… madam." She barely acknowledged Judith but smiled at Gracemere, who chucked her beneath the chin with a lazy forefinger.
They went upstairs to a small parlor, as ostentatiously decorated as the one downstairs. A fire burned in the grate, and a round table was set for two. A richly cushioned divan was the only other furniture, apart from a worked screen in the corner. It would conceal the commode, Judith knew. Rooms such as this were equipped to cater in total privacy for all needs.
"Goodness me, Bernard," she said with an amazed little titter. "What a strange place. It's almost more like a bedchamber than a dining parlor."
"It's a very private hotel," he said, pouring wine into two glasses. "A toast, my dear Judith."
She took the glass. "And what shall we toast, sir?"
"Adventure and the confounding of dictatorial husbands." He raised his glass, laughing at her as he drank.
Judith took a sip, smiling, then, carrying her glass, she strolled over to the window and drew aside the curtain to look down on the street. Under cover of the curtain, she took the packet from her reticule and shook the contents in her wineglass.
"Are there many such hotels on this street, Bernard?" she asked in tones of innocent curiosity, turning back to him, giving him a wide-eyed smile as she drained the contents of her glass. "May I have some more wine?"
"Of course, my dear." He brought the decanter over to her. If she became foxed again, it would only add spice to the affair this time. She probably wouldn't remember what had happened, and he'd deposit her at her doorstep for her husband in a distinctly shop-soiled condition.
Judith raised the refilled glass, then gasped, slamming it back on the table. Her hand went to her throat and, under Gracemere's astonished, horrified gaze, she turned a delicate shade of green. With a sudden gasp, she flew behind the screen to the commode from whence came the most unromantic and unladylike sounds.
Marcus made his wife's excuses to the Willoughbys, offering a polite white lie. He did what was required of him, making the rounds of his fellow guests, most of whom he'd known since boyhood, ate an indifferent dinner, enjoyed good burgundy, and followed his fellow guests to the drawing room for the recital.
"My Lord Carrington, this is an unexpected encounter." Agnes Barret materialized on the arm of her elderly husband just as the harpist took her place. "We are come so late," she whispered, sitting beside the marquis. "We had another dinner engagement, but we couldn't offend the Willoughbys. Such old friends of my husband's." She fanned herself vigorously and looked around the room, nodding and smiling as she met recognition.
Marcus m
urmured something suitable, thinking that she was a most attractive woman, with those fine eyes and high cheekbones and that curiously familiar wicked curve to her mouth.
"Lady Carrington isn't with you?" Agnes turned her smile upon him.
"No, she had a previous engagement," he said.
"Ah." Agnes frowned as if in thought. "Not in Jermyn Street, of course."
Premonition shot up Marcus's spine like flame on a tarred stick. "I hardly think so, ma'am."
Agnes shook her head. "No, of course not. Silly of me, I had the unmistakable impression I'd seen her alighting from a chaise… it must have been a trick of the light. The lantern over the door was throwing strange shadows."
Marcus sat still, a smile fixed on his face, his eyes on the harpist as she began to pluck her instrument. He felt enwrapped in tendrils of malice, the evil mischief emanating from the woman beside him seeming to weave around him. Judith had been right. Agnes Barret was not harmless. Agnes Barret was dangerous. And if Agnes Barret was Gracemere's lover, then Judith was in danger. How or why, he couldn't guess. But he was as certain of it as he was of his own name. Martha's battered little face rose vividly in his memory, the despairing whimpers filling his ears anew.
He rose without excuse from his chair and left the room, while the harpist's gentle music continued behind him.
Agnes, startled, watched him stalk from the room. She'd done no more than sow the first little seed. She hadn't mentioned Bernard. That would come tomorrow or the next day, a whispered word to set the gossip on its way. What could possibly have driven the marquis to leave so precipitately?
Marcus left the house without making farewells and walked fast to Jermyn Street.
Gracemere listened for a minute in horrified impotence to the sounds of violent retching behind the screen. Then he strode to the door, flung it open, and bellowed for help. Madame came up the stairs, two of her girls on her heels.
"Whatever is it, my lord?"
