by Rakes Reward
Given the slightest opportunity, she would have no hesitation in taking him to task. She rather doubted that anyone had ever done so before, particularly a woman, but in this case, she had cause. And she would not permit his overpowering masculinity to prevent her from doing her duty. She refused to give in to the disturbingly seductive memories that plagued her dreams. Dreams where Kit’s strong hands had gently—
She forced herself to look coldly on him.
He bowed slightly. ‘Forgive me, Miss Beaumont. For a moment, I thought Emma was alone. It had not occurred to me that you might be here at this late hour of the day.’
Marina bridled but said nothing. Of course he had overlooked her. She was only a poor, plain companion, was she not?
Lady Stratton had crossed the floor to take her brother-in-law by the arm and draw him into the room. ‘You do not fool me, brother dear,’ she said archly. ‘I know precisely why you have arrived at this late hour. You are deliberately avoiding my other guests, while allowing yourself to claim that you have done the pretty by your brother’s wife.’
He grinned down at her. ‘I make no attempt to deny it—especially as I recognised the arms on the carriage that was driving away. I must admit that the society of Lady Blaine is not at all to my taste.’
‘But I thought the Viscount was a member of your club?’
‘Yes, but so are many gentlemen. It does not mean that I seek out his company. Besides, he has been abroad since just after I returned to England. Visiting his plantations, or some such, I understand.’
‘Oh,’ said Marina, before she could stop herself. Her disapproval must have been apparent from her tone, for Mr Stratton threw her a very strange look. She felt she must be blushing, at least a little. But, on the other hand, she knew that she had right on her side on this occasion. She looked challengingly back at him. ‘Are you surprised, sir, to learn that some people do not approve of the exploitation of our fellow men? The Church teaches us that we are all brothers. It cannot be right to enslave our brothers.’
Mr Stratton looked at Marina with frank curiosity. ‘A follower of Wilberforce, I collect?’
She nodded.
‘Most laudable,’ he continued. ‘But the slave trade is ended. Your battle is won, is it not?’
‘No, indeed,’ she countered hotly. ‘We may no longer transport the poor souls out of Africa, but, in the plantations, they are still in chains. And—’
The door opened to admit the butler. ‘Tea, at last,’ breathed Lady Stratton, sounding relieved. ‘You will take a cup, Kit?’
‘Beg pardon, m’lady,’ said the butler, setting the tray down on the pie-crust table, ‘but Sir Hugo asked if you could spare him a few minutes, on a matter of urgency. He is in his bookroom.’
‘How very awkward,’ she said, but moved to the door with a little shrug. ‘Miss Beaumont, I must ask you to forgive me for a moment. Might I prevail upon you to do the honours in my absence?’
‘Of course.’
‘And Kit will be on his best behaviour, I promise you.’ She glared a warning at him, but it seemed to produce no reaction. ‘I shall return shortly. Pray excuse me.’ She hurried from the room.
Marina’s heart had begun to beat very fast. She told herself to ignore it. As the door closed on the butler, she lifted the silver teapot and looked up at Kit Stratton with as much coolness as she could muster. ‘Cream and sugar, Mr Stratton?’
‘Thank you.’
He took the seat opposite Marina. His biscuit-coloured pantaloons were so tightly moulded to his body that Marina could see the flexing of his every muscle when he stretched out his long legs. She tried to concentrate on the sugar basin and then on handing him his cup.
‘Thank you,’ he said again, reaching out with one strong, lean hand. He did not touch her, but at that moment Marina’s hard-won control began to crack, and her hand wavered slightly. If he had not taken the cup just then, the tea would have been spilt.
I must be going out of my mind, she thought. Why am I concerning myself about serving tea, when this man is about to bring utter disgrace upon me? And upon Tilly Blaine?
She took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. Her tea sat untouched on the table. ‘Mr Stratton, I must ask you if you are aware of the rumours that are circulating about you and…about our meetings.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I collect that you are about to tell me, Miss Beaumont,’ he replied non-committally.
That was almost too much. ‘I should not need to do so, since you must be the cause of them.’
He raised an eyebrow.
That was the last straw for Marina’s increasingly fragile temper. ‘How dare you?’ she raged. ‘You led me to believe that you had done as I asked. I was fool enough to think that you were a true gentleman, that you would ask your brother not to betray what he had seen. I should have known not to trust you. Tell me, pray, was it you who betrayed my indiscretion to the scandal sheets? Or did you merely disclose it to your friends? I am sure they must have been vastly amused.’
Very slowly, he replaced his cup on the table. Then he leaned back in his chair and surveyed Marina through half-closed eyes. She could feel his contempt, but she would not be cowed, not by a worthless rake. She straightened her shoulders and returned his blatant stare.
‘Very good, Miss Beaumont,’ he said softly. ‘And now, perhaps you would be good enough to explain these accusations of yours. I may add that I am not in the habit of betraying confidences.’
‘Then why did you betray mine?’
‘I did not,’ he said flatly.
She barely heard him. She was now so angry that the words were tumbling out. ‘You and Sir Hugo were the only people who knew I had been in your carriage. No one else saw me in the park that morning. It was obvious that your brother had recognised me. Why else would I write to you as I did? You allowed me to believe that all would be well, while—’
‘You wrote to me? When?’ He was leaning forward now, his whole body alert.
‘You know when,’ she responded tartly. How dare he pretend not to remember?
‘Miss Beaumont,’ he said slowly, ‘I received no letter from you.’
‘But—’
‘No letter,’ he repeated firmly. ‘It is true that my brother recognised you in the park. I assure you that he has spoken of it to no one, not even to his wife. He felt he owed it to your father and your uncle to preserve your good name.’
‘Then—’
‘And I have spoken of it to no one except my brother, Miss Beaumont. If your name is circulating in the scandal sheets, it is none of my doing, I promise you.’
‘Oh.’ Marina let out a long breath and dropped her head into her hands. A moment ago, she could easily have flown at him; now her strength had evaporated. It could not be true. Could it? ‘I do not understand,’ she whispered at last. ‘If neither you nor Sir Hugo spoke of it, how is it that—?’ She did not finish the sentence. What did it matter who was guilty? Her shame would be just the same. She could not bring herself to look at him. She could not move.
Kit reached out and gently removed her hands from her face, holding them in a comforting clasp. ‘Miss Beaumont,’ he said, trying to convey his sympathy in the tone of his voice, ‘Miss Beaumont, look at me.’
It seemed a very long time before she obeyed. Her huge eyes were full of horror, as if she could see a terrible fate awaiting her.
‘You believe the Strattons have betrayed you. I promise you we have not done so. But, from what you say, it appears that you have been betrayed. Tell me of this letter. When was it sent? Who delivered it?’
Miss Beaumont lifted her chin an inch. ‘I wrote to you as soon as I reached home. I took the letter to the receiving office myself.’
‘You are sure the direction was correct?’
‘Yes, of course. I could not mistake it. After all, I had only just come from your house.’
‘You directed it to me in Chelsea?’ At her impatient nod, he said slowly, ‘I see. That
was unfortunate, I think.’ It was unfortunate, too, that she had entrusted her letter to the post, rather than to a messenger, but it would not do to tell Miss Beaumont what he was beginning to suspect. She was distraught enough already. He must treat her with great care from this point. But he had very little time. Emma might return at any moment.
He tried to smile reassuringly at her. She had not withdrawn her hands, but he doubted there was anything to be read into that. He was not sure that she was aware that he held them. ‘I did not receive your letter, ma’am. Would you be kind enough to tell me what was in it?’
‘I…I cannot remember exactly, sir. I said that I thought your brother had recognised me. I…believe I asked you to intercede with him, in hopes that he might say nothing.’
‘That was all?’
‘I may have mentioned alighting from your carriage…to explain how it was that Sir Hugo saw me. I am not sure.’
Kit frowned. Worse and worse. There was one last question. It had to be asked. ‘Miss Beaumont, did you sign your letter?’
‘Oh, no,’ she replied quickly.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
‘I used only my initials.’
Kit looked quickly down at the floor, trying to hide his obvious dismay. Her letter was lost—and it contained all the information needed to ruin her. She—innocent and unworldly as she was—had thought she would be safe as long as she did not sign her name. Confound it, how many women did she think there were with the initials M.B.?
‘Miss Beaumont—’
‘Mr Stratton, I…I apologise for my hasty words a moment ago,’ she said stiffly, avoiding his eyes. With a sudden movement, she pulled her hands from his and hid them in her skirts. She was blushing now, terribly conscious that he had been holding her hands.
He was reminded yet again that she had a flawless complexion. He found himself wishing that she would look at him again. She had beautiful eyes, even if the flecks of gold were now hidden by the depth of her hurt.
She spoke to her skirts. Her voice was so low that it was difficult to make out her words. ‘Mr Stratton, I think it is worse than you know. A scandal sheet is circulating. It says that you have a new m…mistress, a tall lady with the initials M.B. There is much speculation about my…about the lady’s identity.’
Kit nodded. This was very serious—for Miss Beaumont. ‘Do you have any reason to believe that you have been identified as M.B., ma’am?’ he asked softly.
‘Oh, no,’ she cried, dropping her head into her hands once more. ‘No reason in the world.’
Kit thought she was beginning to sound a little hysterical. It made no sense. She must know she was safe as long as M.B. remained unidentified.
‘Lady Luce is certain that the lady in question is Tilly Blaine.’
Kit stared in total disbelief. Miss Blaine? Tilly Blaine?
‘Her real name is Mathilda, you see, but everyone knows her as “Tilly” so the connection is not obvious at once, and—’
Kit began to laugh. He could not help it. The thing was just too absurd. Tilly Blaine! A gushing beanpole of a woman who talked—once started, she was almost impossible to stop—of nothing but poets.
Miss Beaumont shot to her feet, rattling the teacups in her haste. ‘How dare you laugh, sir? Have you no thought for what Miss Blaine may be made to suffer? You—’
Rising politely, Kit calmly lifted the tea table out of range of her wrath. ‘My dear Miss Beaumont,’ he said smoothly, ‘I have not the least doubt that nothing will come of it. For who would believe that I would ever—?’
‘You conceited coxcomb!’ she spat. ‘You think of nothing but yourself. You say no one would ever believe that you—the great Kit Stratton—would have secret meetings with a plain girl like Tilly Blaine. May I remind you, sir, that you had two such meetings with me?’
Kit took a deep breath. What on earth had possessed him to say something so arrogant? A cock crowing on a dunghill showed more humility than he. Miss Beaumont would never listen to a word he said after this. He reached out to take her hand once more, but she pulled away as if she had been burnt.
At that moment, the drawing room door opened.
Emma had returned.
‘Are you for Faro tonight, ma’am?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Lady Luce. ‘Worries you, don’t it, Méchante, to see my run of luck?’ She allowed the lackey to relieve her of her dark evening cloak. ‘Be grateful I am not Lady Blaine. After all, I do lose—sometimes. I fancy I might see whether my luck still holds tonight.’
Lady Marchant bowed her acknowledgement. ‘As you wish, ma’am,’ she said. ‘My rooms are always open to you.’
The Dowager snorted and turned towards the staircase.
‘What do you think about this latest rumour?’
‘What rumour?’ said the Dowager sourly, pausing on the step.
‘Why, about Kit Stratton’s latest mistress, the mysterious M.B.’
The Dowager looked narrowly at her hostess. ‘You do not know who she is,’ she said flatly, and with obvious satisfaction. ‘How very frustrating for you.’
‘Am I to understand that you do?’ Lady Marchant’s voice dripped venom.
‘Naturally,’ said Lady Luce evenly. She looked Méchante over for a long moment. ‘But I do not propose to share that information. Not yet.’
Lady Marchant made to speak, but the Dowager forestalled her. ‘I know there is no love lost between you and Kit Stratton. So I will give you a hint, for we are surely allies in this little charade. This time, Kit Stratton has gone much too far. This time, he might even find himself riveted. And I doubt he will enjoy the experience.’ She laughed nastily. ‘But I most certainly shall. I would gladly have paid him his twelve thousand pounds for this. Pity he will never know it.’
Méchante’s eyes gleamed with malice. ‘M.B. is a lady? A single lady?’
Lady Luce nodded. ‘We should perhaps look forward to dancing at his wedding.’
‘Oh, it is famous! I doubt I shall dance at his wedding, however. On his grave, more like.’
The Dowager’s eyebrows shot up.
‘My dear ma’am,’ said Lady Marchant, ‘I may not have succeeded in identifying M.B.—I admit my sources have been useless there—but I have not been idle, I assure you.’ She continued confidingly, ‘You will have noticed the increasing rumours about Kit and the Austrian Baroness? I fancy her husband is finding it…somewhat difficult of late to overlook her adventures. What is more, I have made it my business to ensure that most of the foreign diplomats—and especially the French Ambassador—are laughing at the Baron’s inability to keep his wife in his own bed. His stiff-necked pride will never tolerate that, especially from a Frenchman. There must now be a good chance that Kit Stratton will have a bullet in him before he gets near the altar.’
‘Balderdash! Kit Stratton is a crack shot.’
Lady Marchant beamed at the old woman. ‘I do not believe that I said anything about a duel, ma’am. You must know there are other ways…’
The Dowager paused assessingly. ‘Indeed there are. I thank you for the information, Méchante, and I shall watch developments with…interest. As it happens, I am holding a large party on Wednesday evening. Everyone will be there—the diplomats, the Strattons, the cream of Society… It could be very entertaining. Such a pity that I cannot extend an invitation to you, my dear, but I am sure you understand…’
Marina had just reached the end of her second page of notes about the arrangements for the Dowager’s party on the morrow, when the butler entered with a letter.
‘Lady Marchant’s man brought it, m’lady,’ said Tibbs, offering the salver to the Dowager. ‘He did not wait for a reply.’
Lady Luce nodded a dismissal. She sat for a moment, weighing the letter in her hand. ‘I wonder…’ she said softly. Then she broke the seal.
From her seat on the low stool, Marina watched anxiously. She was quite certain that Lady Marchant was out to make mischief in any way she could. The Dowager h
ad hinted that Méchante was become Kit’s enemy. And what better way to attack Kit than by attacking M.B.?
The letter contained an enclosure. The Dowager lifted it fastidiously with the very tips of her fingers and laid it aside.
Oh, God, it looked like— Please, no! Not another!
The Dowager cackled gleefully. ‘My alliance with Méchante! I had not expected it to bear fruit so soon. But so it is.’ She took up the second paper again, more eagerly this time, and unfolded it. After a moment, she looked up and said, ‘The Baroness will be furious. And as for the Blaines… You will enjoy this, Marina, after all the insult that their family has inflicted on yours. Listen. “We have, in the past, been reticent about the identity of M.B., out of proper regard for a lady’s reputation. But we now learn that her conduct does not merit such restraint. We have learned, with horror, that M.B. is known to have visited Mr S. at his house in Chelsea on at least two occasions and to have been quite alone with him there. We can only deplore such laxity of morals in the young females of today. Their parents should reproach themselves—” So they should,’ said the Dowager, dropping the paper into her lap and putting aside her reading glass. ‘Much too high in the instep, in my opinion, for an upstart Viscountess. Time she was brought down a peg or two.’
Marina’s mind was in a whirl. Her only thought was that someone had betrayed her visits to Chelsea. It must have been Kit Stratton. No. It could not have been Kit Stratton, for he had denied it. Not Sir Hugo either, for he was sworn to secrecy. But someone had done it. Someone… If only she knew who it was, she could perhaps—
No. There was nothing that she, a poor companion, could do. In any case, it was too late. Her conduct was known to the world. It wanted only the revelation of her identity to complete her ruin. And that could not be long delayed, for—
