by Jaima Fixsen
“I expect you’ll need to know where I live,” she said, forcing herself to have courage when they pulled up for a change of horses.
Rushford didn’t answer immediately; he was busy with the innkeeper ordering her lemonade. He turned to her once he was finished. “Yes, I suppose you have things you’d like sent over,” he said at last. “Just give your orders to Betty. She’ll see that whatever you need is brought round.”
It was a faultless and vastly unsettling answer. Laura accepted the lemonade, sipped through stiff lips, and wondered where they were going and how bad it would be. After her bold proposition he wouldn’t guess she was a virgin—and if he did would he care?
The remaining miles slipped by like sand in a glass while Laura imagined ways to explain she wasn’t ready—just yet—to sleep with him. She thought he’d understand, but what if she’d misjudged him? He might be a sensualist behind that faultless veneer. Suppose he brought her to a vault-like townhouse with rooms of red damask and velvet cushions, exuding the jumbled scents of other women’s perfume? Licking dry lips, Laura wished she’d finished her lemonade.
“Do you know where we are going?” she asked at the outskirts of London, prodding Betty awake.
“Basil Street I think,” Betty said.
That didn’t tell her much. “Where is that?” Laura asked.
“I’m not certain.” Betty sniffed. “It’s not the best part of town.”
Even the maid despised her. Laura felt sick—then even sicker as the carriage swayed and stopped. She wished for her lucky garters. Or Maman. Or Jack. He wouldn’t even know how to find her. How foolish of her to keep back the truth.
“Miss Edwards?” He stood with his hand out ready to hand her down.
“We’re arrived? So soon?” Her voice cracked.
“I think you’d be exhausted after such a long journey,” he said and Laura seized her chance.
“I am. Exhausted, I mean. Perhaps I should lie down. And take a sleeping draught,” she added for good measure, trying to see where she was without gawking. The street seemed respectable enough. Clean with newer houses. But maybe Rushford was one of those who liked seaminess under a whitewash—she’d learned from other actresses about those. Men who kept stuffy-looking houses with plain fronts and brass knockers and inside the rooms had peepholes and silken bonds. No. She wasn’t going inside. She’d run. She’d kick him and Betty too and race to the theatre and confess all to Mr. Rollins and Peter.
“You didn’t mention you were unwell,” Betty grumbled.
“Come inside.” Jasper tugged on her arm.
“I can’t,” she said, trying to pull free. Even though the house was loathsomely ordinary it wore a sinister cast—that vanished as a small boy hurtled out the front door. He was five at most with stained cuffs, grubby knees, and a head of black hair long enough to hide his eyes. Laura reached out and steadied herself on the handle of the carriage door. Was this—Rushford’s son?
“Where are we?” she asked, her voice too harsh.
“Your new abode,” Rushford said, bowing. As he rose he reached out to ruffle the lad’s hair, telling him to talk slower, that he couldn’t make any words out of such impertinent piping.
“Is he yours?” Laura hissed, sidling closer.
Rushford started. “Lord, no! This is my cousin’s boy. Master Henry Morris.”
“Why is he here?” she asked, each word pounding out the same note.
“He lives here,” Rushford said, turning sheepish and spreading his hands. “This is all just—a trifle fast for me. I thought…for the time being at least…I’d have you stay with Henry’s family. Just until we decide where to put you.”
Laura was about to argue that she wasn’t a hat, but there wasn’t time.
“Come, I’ll introduce you.”
She balked. On one hand she felt incomprehensible relief at the sudden reprieve. But this was not what men did with their mistresses and she was only capable of so much deceit. “Do they know?” she asked.
“That you’ve got a Lecroy-Duplessis tacked on to the Edwards? Yes, but Alistair at least won’t hold it against you. His wife, Anna, wasn’t so sure but she relented once I explained that you’re also Gemma Holyrood. Anna,” he explained in a whisper, “is dreadfully middle class. So watch you don’t snub her.”
“What about Saltash?” she asked. Had Rushford reconsidered the whole plan? If he had, was she sorry?
“We’ll discuss him later. No time now. Anna will be waiting.” Not pausing for a reply, he took her arm and ushered her inside.
*****
Anna Beaumaris, Laura discovered, was an alarmingly beautiful woman lost in a shamble of bits and pieces spread out on a serviceable-looking carpet. “You’re here,” she said, smiling up at them from the floor. She pushed her dark hair away from her face with the back of her wrist. A black, sticky substance adhered to her fingers. “You must be Miss Edwards.”
She stretched out her hand then drew it back and wiped at the persistent grime with a man’s handkerchief. “I didn’t believe Jasper when he said he could have you here by suppertime, but I had your room made up and extra places laid just in case.”
“No one gives me credit for anything,” Jasper said. “I’m not nearly so loose in the haft as you all believe.” He made introductions and they exchanged pleasantries until Jasper cut them off. “Still puzzling over it?” He gestured at the oddments littering the floor.
Anna frowned. “It’s not fitting right. And the articulated ankle wasn’t such a good idea. It drags and Alistair nearly tripped on it.”
“She’s making her husband a new foot,” Jasper explained, as if that settled everything. Before Laura could ask if Mr. Beaumaris was a complete or partial automaton, the door opened and the gentleman in question appeared—handsome as his wife was beautiful, of middling height, with tanned skin. He used a walking stick and leaned on it a shade too heavily. He wore two boots, though. “Just leather over wood,” he explained, interpreting Laura’s confusion. He tapped his cane against the left boot. “There’s no foot in here, but it works well enough. Anna, what a mess you’ve made.” He crossed the floor, stepping carefully around pieces of carved wood, stiffened leather and some ugly metal buckles and hinges.
“Henry helped with that,” she said. “Did you finish?”
“The stanza? Yes. I’m working on a translation of Horace,” he explained to Laura.
“It’s the only way he’ll ever get me to read it,” his wife said cheerfully. “And even then…” She spread her hands.
“Anna has little affinity for the classics,” Alistair put in. “But she’s very tolerant of my love for them.”
She grinned. “You work with the beautiful and I keep to the useful—as I hope this mess will be eventually. I’m convinced these artificial feet can be better.”
“She wants me to dance,” Alistair said.
His wife snorted. “I just want the thing to stay on without such ruthless tightening of the buckles. Little things, Miss Edwards. We deal with little things here.” She said it so contentedly Laura suspected it was by choice.
Even with both his legs, Alistair and Anna Beaumaris would have made an unconventional couple—her blunt manners and unwomanly interests were striking. Alistair was a model gentleman: handsome, gregarious, charming, and yet they complemented each other. “He wants to ride.” Anna smiled at her husband. “Insists on it. That’s why I’ve begun working on the legs.”
“They’re a long way from crutches or my first wooden peg,” Alistair said, leaning back on the sofa and crossing his ankles. “This one almost looks real. By next summer I’ll be running.”
When Anna left the room to tend Henry her husband also took the opportunity to excuse himself, wearing something akin to Jasper’s smirk as he limped from the room and softly closed the door. Jasper, grim about the mouth, got up after him to open it.
“Anna’s parents live here too,” he said. “So no matter what Alistair thinks my plans are you
’re safe here.”
Two couples, a boy and servants…it was a comfortably sized house, but it was no small imposition, adding her to the list of occupants.
“I have rooms near the theatre,” Laura said. “I can stay there.”
“Not anymore,” he said.
“Mr. Rushford—” she began.
“Jasper,” he corrected. “I’m not your solicitor.”
“No, you’re not. Will you tell me what this means?”
He bristled. “You’d rather I took you to a quiet house and hustled you under the sheets?” His words came with a look equally sharp.
“No, but—”
“I’ll play along when you’re Gemma Holyrood because I said I would. But I’m not going to sleep with you.”
Laura dropped her eyes to her fingers, afraid they would betray her relief with a twitch or that he would hear her hammering pulse. “Why not?”
“Because you’re Laura Eduard Leroy-Duplessis. I’d have to marry you. If my conscience failed to compel me I’m certain your brother would.”
She swallowed. “You know I would never—”
“Pssshh.” He linked his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “I like you just fine Laura, but I’d rather we never found ourselves forced to the altar. Simpler. Besides you’re my friend. Ruining you would be a shabby thing to do and I know you don’t wish it.”
“I—”
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been worrying. I’ve never seen you so green and I know you don’t get sick in carriages.”
“Do you mean…all along? Why didn’t you say something?” Laura demanded, angry now. “I—”
He laughed. “Were you frightening yourself all this time with visions of naked flesh and satin sheets?” His eyes twinkled, kindling an even hotter burn on her scorched cheeks. She felt about thirteen years old.
“Yes I was!” Laura snapped. “And it was beastly of you to let me. Why didn’t you say anything?” It was mortifying, but the agony of her frantic escape plans still haunted her.
“You weren’t exactly kind to my nerves, springing this on me. Needed a bit of my own back,” he said. “You can’t argue that. It’s only fair. And I confess I didn’t think of telling you right off—too tired. Didn’t catch much sleep you know, jaunting last night between here and Sophy’s.”
Maybe. But he’d enjoyed himself at her expense. “You tricked me,” she huffed.
“Yes, but aren’t you glad?”
She was, but it was too humiliating to admit it.
“Oh, come on. You can’t have really thought—what kind of fellow do you take me for?” He asked lightly enough, but his eyes studied her too intently.
“You put up a convincing front,” Laura said grudgingly. “I didn’t see past it.”
“Pots and kettles, my dear. Be careful.”
Laura laced her fingers together. He had a point. And though the laugh was at her expense, she couldn’t deny it was funny. Already it was more work that it was worth to keep her mouth from smiling. “Very well, Mr. Rushford. Beneath the black you’re rather a dear. You’re right. I was afraid.”
“Not half so frightened as I! Yesterday in the garden—I thought you’d gone wild.” He laughed. “I was tempted to run.”
Laura made a face. “You needn’t be so brutally unflattering.”
He snorted. “And what was your green face all day? A compliment? I must be a prospect indeed to make a female that ill at the mere thought of—”
“You got your revenge,” Laura retorted. “You enjoyed watching me suffer.”
One shoulder lifted, conceding the truth with a shrug. “Perhaps a little.”
“It wasn’t satin, you know. Red damask and velvet. You can’t imagine how sordid it was.”
He winced. “You have the lowest opinion of me. I’m sure my love nest is fitted up more tastefully than that.”
“I’ll never know now,” Laura said, laughing.
“You certainly won’t.” He traced an upholstered leaf on the arm of the sofa, giving himself time to select words. “Don’t worry. I’ll come up to scratch in other respects—I said I’d play along and I told you once that if you were my mistress I’d get you beautiful horses.”
“Don’t. I shouldn’t have asked you,” Laura said, hoping to chase away the sudden awkwardness. “Let’s forget about it.” It was a mad, impossible idea. And it was too much to ask of him. “There’s no reason you should. You aren’t getting anything from me but trouble.”
“What are you talking about?” he said, aghast. “I’m getting two hundred pounds, plus the satisfaction of watching Protheroe’s face as I flaunt you about town. And I’ll love watching you stick it to Saltash. You can’t stop the game now.
“When must you be ready for the stage?” he asked, stretching a long arm along the back of the sofa. Something about the gesture made Laura’s answer stick in her throat. He was beautiful. Impossibly kind. And completely uninterested in touching her, while she suddenly was so fraught with longing that her palms ached.
An hour ago she’d been afraid of him. Now given the chance, she might have followed him into a scented den layered with tasseled pillows and silks, for she knew that any woman would be lucky to be loved by a man like this one. He was exactly the type recommended by her mother, who’d said more than once that the best loving was with a man you could laugh with. “One who doesn’t make you shy, Laure. Or understands shyness if you truly can’t help it. Of course, I hope you know better than that.”
Laura exhaled shakily. There’d never been such a fool as she. It hurt, more than she cared to admit, knowing he didn’t want her.
“Soon,” she said. “I must be back on stage soon. Mr. Rollins wants me next week.” She’d have to act every minute until then to hide the things it was better Jasper never know.
Chapter Seventeen
The play's the thing
Jasper didn’t come the next morning. He arrived late, after luncheon and the arrival of a ‘French’ modiste.
“She says you sent her,” Laura said, gesturing angrily at the woman and her samples of lace and muslin.
“Quite right. You’re done with the white gowns and gold crosses.” He dismissed her everyday costume with a wave of his hand. “I’m not dressing my mistress like a school girl.”
Anna Beaumaris, who’d greeted the dressmaker warmly and dived into a discussion of fabrics and trim, chuckled from her seat on the sofa. Laura steeled herself. Someone had to stop this nonsense.
“Rushford—”
“That sounds dreadfully cold,” he complained. “Why is it so hard to say Jasper?”
“Jasper—”
He shook his head at her clipped syllables. “Not like that. Worse than my mother.”
Laura forced herself to soften in the face and hands, keeping tight in the middle lest her temper fly away with her. “Jasper.” He lost focus as she rolled the plummy syllables off her tongue. “I didn’t say you could dress me.”
“Better,” he said, collecting himself. “Say it just that way in front of Protheroe.”
“Jasper.” She purred it this time, pulling from deep in the diaphragm, testing how far she could stretch each syllable. “You can’t buy me clothes.”
He blinked. “I’m not sure that one’s for company. Save it for a special occasion. I’ll tell you when.”
Laura brought her glare from him to the modiste.
Jasper sighed. “Your scruples are commendable but misguided, I’m afraid. No one will believe this if I don’t lay down the blunt for you. Mistresses are expensive. You are at any rate.”
She could have managed a sound retort—if she wasn’t choking in her haste to glance back and see if Anna’d overheard.
“He’s right you know,” Anna said. “No point arguing. Come, there are the prettiest things.” She gestured to the row of laces she’d laid on the back of the sofa. “I like this one.” She pointed to a
discreet confection that looked sickeningly expensive.
“I can buy my own gowns,” Laura hissed.
Jasper shook his head. “If you don’t know how much Pomeroy-Jones spent on your competition last quarter you’re not nearly clever enough to pull this off.”
Mutinous, Laura grumbled. “I have some idea—” Sarah was never squeamish about sharing details and was shrewd and mercenary as they come.
“He dropped five thousand in six months.” Jasper ignored her gasp. “The choosy Miss Holyrood can’t settle for less.”
Laura choked. “You aren’t—five thousand—”
“I’m not setting you up in a house. There’s a great cost savings there. No furnishings. No servants, save Betty. But the illusion—the illusion must be there.” Nudging Laura toward the stool where the modiste’s assistant crouched with tapes and a mouthful of pins, Jasper addressed Anna. “You know what I like. I don’t want her dressed like some milk and water miss and I don’t want anything vulgar. Short sleeves. And more décolletage. And get rid of this,” he said as he flicked a contemptuous hand over Laura’s gown.
“I know what will suit,” Anna said.
Jasper grinned. “Laura, I’ve written to Rollins. I’ll bring you by the theatre tomorrow. Madame assures me she can have a suitable dress ready by then.”
The modiste clucked assent in her execrable sham-French. Laura winced. She wasn’t reconciled to this at all and knew just how late the modiste’s assistants would work piecing together a dress before morning. “I won’t—”
“I’ll see you at dinner,” Jasper said and breezed out the door. Laura snapped her mouth shut, grinding her teeth.
“Infuriating isn’t he?” Anna studied Laura’s figure and compared it to the dress pictured on the card in her hand. “He’s like a mosquito. Try to smack him and he buzzes away and all you’ve got for your trouble is a warm spot on your arm. You’ll feel better if you just give in and spend a great deal of his money.”
