by Olivia Drake
A pink-cheeked brunette, Fanny kept her gaze trained on her gloved hands. “Yes, Mama.”
“I am sorry,” Lady Rosalind said, her voice filled with a proper note of regret, though her blue eyes were lively. “In his absence, allow me to introduce you to Miss Mayhew, who is newly arrived from Wessex. She’s the daughter of my dear departed friend Lady Susan Spencer.”
“You are in mourning for your mother, Miss Mayhew?” asked the dowager, cutting a glance at Jane’s drab black dress.
“No, ma’am, she died shortly after my birth,” Jane said. “It was my father who died last year.”
“And now the dear girl is ready to brighten her wardrobe,” Lady Rosalind chirped. “That is why she’s come to London, so that we may visit the modiste and purchase the very latest in fashion for her.”
“Purchase?” Jane stuttered. “I never said I—”
“Oh, I do adore shopping,” Lady Rosalind broke in. “We shall have such fun, you and I, just wait and see. It will be like outfitting my own daughter.” Wistfulness touched her fine features, but only for a moment; then she focused her attention across the room and a smile transformed her face. “Ah, Kellisham is here. Pray excuse me, ladies.” A vision in blue silk, the countess glided toward the doorway, where the duke stood chatting with a sober-faced young man.
Jane sat very still, her fingers taut around the smooth gilt arms of her chair. Did Lady Rosalind not realize that Jane lacked the means to pay for extravagant clothing? Papa had left only a tiny annuity, enough for her and Aunt Willy to get by if they practiced stringent economies and Jane supplemented their income by doing copy work for her father’s colleagues. That left nothing for frivolities. Jane would have to tell her ladyship so.
Yet just for a moment she fancied herself wearing a gown of soft azure silk, her hair curled and shining, as she gracefully descended the grand staircase to an enthralled crowd of guests. In the far shadows would stand a man in an elegant dark suit, his gaze intent on her, as if she were the only woman in the room, Iseult to his Tristan. He would thrust his way through the assembly and before any other gentleman could grasp her gloved hand, he would claim her for his own. She would lift her gaze to his handsome face, and her heart would flutter madly when she saw that her mystery admirer was none other than—
“… Lord Chasebourne.”
“Yes,” Jane blurted, then realized she had heard only part of what Lady Bagwell had said. “Or rather, I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if you were neighbor to Lord Chasebourne.”
“Oh. Yes. I am.” There was a long silence in which Lady Bagwell waited expectantly and Jane heard the chattering of the other guests nearby. Unaccustomed to small talk, she fumbled for something to add. “I … live in a cottage there. It is pleasant to take walks upon the downs.”
“A cottage?” Lady Bagwell’s sniff conveyed her ill opinion. “Was your father no gentleman, then?”
Jane stiffened. “He was an eminent scholar of medieval and pre-medieval writings. He did a new translation of Beowulf. And if you would but read his essay on monastery documents of the first millenium, you would realize the vital contribution he made to our knowledge of the Dark Ages.”
“Indeed.” Lady Bagwell’s lip was so curled it was hard to imagine how the woman managed to sip her tea. “And did he never seek a husband for you?”
Jane looked away to the window, which showed a glimpse of green trees in the square. The truth was, Hector Mayhew had been too engrossed in his books to notice his daughter had grown up. Or perhaps he’d believed her to be content in her duties. She had been happy to be useful. As his assistant, she’d spent hours looking up obscure references in dusty old tomes, days copying over his crabbed handwriting into readable text.
Then he had fallen ill, and any chance she might have had to learn the social graces had vanished into an endless round of mixing medicines and reading aloud to him. Not that she had minded; she had thrived on the work. But since his death, she had been aware of a vague discontent … at least until she had found Marianne.
“I don’t suppose either of us thought a husband was important,” she murmured.
“Not important? Why, there is nothing more essential to a woman’s happiness than marrying well. Isn’t that so, Fanny?”
“Yes, Mama,” said her daughter, who sat as still as a little pink mouse.
Lady Bagwell leaned forward, her moustachioed lip twitching as she whispered, “Fanny will wed no less than an earl. She has been groomed from the cradle to become a countess at the very least.” Her ladyship’s gray marble eyes seemed to hold a warning, a warning Jane didn’t quite fathom. Surely the woman didn’t think Jane had designs on any earls … or that one earl in particular would view her as a desirable mate.
Jane stifled the mad urge to laugh. How could Lady Bagwell imagine such an absurdity?
All of a sudden, Lady Bagwell gripped her daughter’s white arm, hissing into her ear, “The Duke of Kellisham approaches, with his nephew Robert. But never mind the nephew. You must charm His Grace.”
Like a trained spaniel, Fanny sprang from the chair and sank into a deep curtsy.
Arm entwined with his, Lady Rosalind led the duke forward. Trailing them was a studious young man with meticulously combed brown hair that failed to conceal his jug ears. Lady Rosalind made the introductions, deftly seating Robert beside Fanny. The two slid glances at one another, blushed and pretended disinterest, before stealing a second look. All the while, Lady Bagwell tried to encourage conversation between the distinguished duke and her daughter.
Lady Rosalind linked arms with Jane. “Your Grace, if you will excuse us, Jane and I shall take a turn around the room.”
He made a courtly bow. “Of course.”
The moment they were out of earshot, Lady Rosalind leaned close in a waft of violet perfume, whispering, “Robert and Fanny make a well-matched pair, don’t you think? It is deliciously amusing that Old Baggy has designs on Kellisham as a son-in-law instead.”
“Why didn’t you tell them of your engagement?”
“We’re saving the announcement for my ball next week. I did mention the ball, didn’t I?”
“No, my lady.”
“I mean for it to be the most outrageously magnificent party of the Season.” She squeezed Jane’s arm, and her eyes sparkled with the same mysterious facets as her sapphire brooch. “Oh, how perfectly things are proceeding.”
“Things?”
A Mona Lisa smile tilting her lips, Lady Rosalind scanned the throng of visitors. “Why, yes, no one has dared to criticize Ethan for settling Marianne in his house. That is absolutely necessary if she is to be accepted someday. Meanwhile, we shall scarcely have a moment to breathe, what with all the preparations for the party. It will be a brilliant time for you to make your formal debut into society.”
“Me?” Mired in dread and longing, Jane halted near the massive double doors. “My lady, about the new gowns. I cannot afford them.”
“Pish-posh. We’ll send the bills to Chasebourne.”
“To Ethan?” The very idea mortified Jane. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Oh, he shan’t blink an eye at the expense,” Lady Rosalind said with an airy wave. “He never questions my purchases, but if it makes you more comfortable, we simply won’t tell him the things are for you.”
“But … that’s dishonest. And besides, I’ll know.” No doubt he bought clothing for women all the time. Lewd women who wore fine silk stockings with frilly garters and heaven knew what else. Or little else.
“My dear Jane, it is one of the functions of men to pay our expenses. Besides, I am your godmother, am I not? It is my duty to see that you are dressed appropriately.”
“A godmother’s purpose is to care for the needs of the soul.”
“Then that settles it. One can hardly pray when one’s body is ill clothed.” The countess peered across the drawing room, and her complacent expression changed into a frown. “Good gracious. Kellisham looks positi
vely thunderous. I daresay Old Baggy must have mentioned Marianne to him.” Releasing Jane’s arm, she started to walk away, then turned back. “Oh, by the by, my son ordered the carriage for half an hour hence. It seems the rogue means for us to entertain his callers while he goes off to who knows where.” Her silk skirts rustling, she walked toward her fiancé.
Jane’s heart lurched. If Lady Rosalind meant to distract her from quarreling about clothes, then she certainly had succeeded.
After glancing around to make sure no one noticed, Jane slipped out the doors of the drawing room and ran with unladylike haste toward the grand staircase. She mounted the steps, her shoes scuffing softly on the marble, her hands gripping her stiff black skirt to keep from tripping. She followed the wide corridor, and instead of turning toward the guest wing, she headed for the master’s chambers.
It was a relief to escape the judgmental gazes and covert disapproval; that must be why she felt this curious lightness, this exhilaration as if she had outrun a storm on the moor. The aroma of lemon wax perfumed the hushed air. A tall window at the end of the corridor released a silvery stream of daylight along the rich burgundy carpet.
She stopped before a white door framed by gilded woodwork. Ethan’s apartments. Mrs. Crenshaw had warned her never to venture here.
No, warned was too dramatic a word. Informed, then. Jane had been informed of his order. But she could not be swayed by petty rules when the well-being of a child was at stake.
Girding herself for battle, she glanced up and down the empty passageway before rapping on the door. She admonished herself to be firm with Ethan, to make him tell her what she needed to know. And then she would tell him a thing or two.
The door opened. She found herself facing a short, perfectly groomed man with the narrow face of a whippet. His impassive gaze politely regarded her. “May I direct you somewhere, Miss … Mayhew?”
Undoubtedly, Ethan’s valet knew her identity from hearing gossip in the servants’ hall. “I’m not lost,” she said. “I must speak to Lord Chasebourne immediately. Has he left yet?”
“I shall have to check on his whereabouts. If he is still here, I will give him your message.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, angling up her chin to peer over his head and into the bedroom. Through the slender crack, she glimpsed only the bright panes of a window in the far wall. “It’s urgent that I see him. Right this minute.”
“I will convey your request. Good day.”
The valet stepped back to shut the door. Desperate, she jammed her black leather shoe into the opening. “I know he’s in there. So let me see him.”
Huffy with outrage, the valet held the door almost shut. “This is highly irregular. Please remember this is a gentleman’s bedchamber.”
“Ethan, are you there?” she called, then said to the valet, “Tell him I shan’t be put off.” Spurred by the thought of Marianne being returned to the mother who didn’t want her, Jane pressed her shoulder to the wooden panel and pushed hard. For a moment she and the valet engaged in a ludicrous struggle for domination.
Ethan’s voice rumbled from somewhere inside the room. “Oh, let her in, Wilson. It’s only Jane.”
Only Jane.
The words deflated her, but just for an instant. She’d been right to guess he was avoiding her, the cowardly rogue.
Expecting a vulgar, crimson-draped bedroom trimmed in gaudy gold, she was surprised when she found herself in a pleasant chamber done in pale blue and silver. His mother must have done the decorating. The counterpane on the four-poster was drawn tidily over a hill of pillows. Several books were strewn on the bedside table, and a wing chair waited near the unlit hearth, close enough for the master to prop his feet on the fender if he liked. The effect was comfortable and inviting, not at all like a lover’s lair.
Of course, she reminded herself, it was the tower room above this one where he entertained his women. Did that nondescript door in the corner hide the secret stairway to his den of depravity?
Ethan stood before a silver-framed pier glass. He was fussing with his neckcloth, and Wilson scurried over to help him arrange the white folds. The earl wore no coat or waistcoat, only a pair of leg-hugging fawn breeches and a white shirt. With his every move, the cloth brushed against powerful muscles. Her stomach did a little tumble, twisting itself into an annoying knot. She had the irksome urge to slide her arms around his lean waist, press her cheek to his strong back, and absorb his heat and scent.
She hated this effect he had on her, the wretch. She wasn’t a lovelorn girl anymore. She was a woman with a life of her own, independent of any man.
Their gazes met in the mirror. As he fastened a diamond stickpin in his cravat, he watched her with an air of enjoyment, as he might regard a jester in a troupe of traveling players. “So, Miss Maypole. Invading my bedchamber is fast becoming a habit with you.”
“I would like to speak to you in private.”
“So would a lot of women.” He flashed her a wolfish grin, his eyes dark with deviltry. “Of course, it’s not the speaking that interests them.”
“Well, unlike them, I wish to conduct a serious conversation with you. If you are capable of it.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” Turning to the valet, Ethan inclined his head. Wilson vanished into the dressing room, shutting the door.
Ethan sauntered across the room and threw himself into the wing chair, both legs stretched out as he gazed up at her, his hands behind his head. “It was risky of you to come here. If anyone finds out you’re alone with me, you shall be ruined.” He looked her up and down. “And it’s a pity to be ruined without at least having some pleasure of it.”
She had the disturbing notion that he could see right through her gown. Just like that time she’d caught him in a tree, peering down into her dress. Fighting the urge to cross her arms, she held her hands rigidly at her sides. “I had no choice. You were planning to leave without me again.”
He shrugged, not denying it. “Men are free to do as they like,” he said, his grin rakish. “It’s you ladies who require chaperones.”
“A practice you tend to abuse. After all, a husband can betray his wife, but she dare not do the same.”
His smile died a hard death. “Have a care how you form your opinions. Judgments should be based on facts, not conjecture.”
Her throat felt like parched earth. Jane told herself she had a duty to help one of her own gender fight this predator male. “I know more than you think. After you left, I went back and visited with Lady Portia.”
His muscles seemed to tense, though he remained slouched in the chair. “The devil you did. What did she tell you?”
“That George Smollett has gambled away all her funds. That he ran off and left her.” That you had all but ignored your wife, flaunting your affairs with other women. Jane twisted her fingers together, uneasy in her role of intermediary. “She wants you to know that she repents her mistake and wishes she could make it up to you.”
“Does she.”
His granite features didn’t offer any encouragement. “I know she must have angered you,” Jane went on doggedly. “But I do believe she is truly sorry.”
The muffled rattle of carriage wheels came from the street. Ethan’s eyes were narrowed to slits, hiding his thoughts. “Let me make one thing clear,” he said. “I will not discuss Portia with you. Not now. Not ever.”
“But you ought to at least go and talk to her—”
“The topic is closed.” His voice was congenial, but with a keen edge. “If that is all you’ve come here to say, then be gone.”
Jane felt a rush of frustration and fought it by taking a deep breath. She would have to bide her time for now. “No, that isn’t everything. I wish to discuss Marianne’s mother.”
“Ah. You’re never without a crusade.”
“I deserve to know the name of every woman who might have left Marianne on my doorstep. I don’t care how long the list is, I intend to investigate
each and every one of them.”
“Then ask me nicely. Vinegar won’t catch you many flies, or however the old saying goes.”
He was laughing at her again, she could tell by the slight crinkling at the corners of his dark eyes. The sight stirred that bothersome tension in the pit of her stomach. “Please name the women,” she said on a note of sarcasm. “In fact, if you have paper and pen, I shall take notes.”
She marched briskly toward a small writing desk, seated herself in the chair, and reached for a sheaf of paper that was tucked into a cubbyhole. Before she could pull it halfway out, Ethan slapped his hand down.
His very large, very male hand.
Jane jerked her head up to see him looming over her. She had not even heard him cross the bedroom.
He stood close to her, his face hovering just inches from hers. Never in her life had she swooned, but his intimidating presence made her feel light-headed, piercingly aware of him. She could see each spiky black lash on his eyelids, the faintness of stubble on his smooth-shaven jaw, the small pale scar on his brow where he’d once fallen from that tree. She could smell him, too, a dizzying combination of cologne and deep, mysterious masculinity. Swallowing with difficulty, she wondered if his skin tasted of exotic spices.
He scooped up the papers, and she had a glimpse of bold black penmanship, a series of short lines with many of them slashed through and rewritten. It didn’t resemble a letter. It looked rather like … a list.
A list of potential mothers?
He took the top sheet and rolled it into a tube. The rest of the papers were blank, and he left them on the desk. Pivoting away, he strode to the mantelpiece and stuck the roll into a blue Grecian urn, where the end protruded tantalizingly.
He resumed his seat. Only then did his hard mahogany eyes focus on her. “Next time you’re in a man’s bedroom,” he said, his silky voice holding an underlying menace, “ask permission before you use his things.”
Jane ordered her heart to cease racing, her hands to stop quivering. With exaggerated civility, she said, “Please, may I borrow a pen, m’lord?”
