by Jenny Brown
“Invite all the whores in Brighton if you wish. It is just what my guests will expect of you. I doubt there is anyone in Brighton who does not know the intimate details of the situation into which your poor brother’s will has forced me.”
“I am relieved to hear it. Let’s hope, madam, that you, too, understand the terms of his will and intend to abide by them. I have many other claims on my leisure and am otherwise not likely to linger here. Let there be no mistake about that.”
“You haven’t changed a bit,” Lady Hartwood said bitterly. “You were an annoying child and you’ve grown into exactly the kind of vulgar, showy man I feared you would become. My only comfort lies in the thought that your father did not live to see you become his heir. He died believing it would be dear James who carried on the family name.”
“I am so sorry that I wasn’t able to oblige you by dying in James’s place, Mama,” Lord Hartwood said. “But you will be so good as to observe that I have shown up to fulfill the terms of James’s will and that by doing so I may yet save your home for you. I should like some credit for that at least.”
“You have got as much credit as you deserve already,” his mother snapped. “I haven’t thrown your trull out into the street. You shall have to settle for that.” And with that she nodded her head and with the footman’s assistance rolled slowly toward the door.
“Not exactly the return of the Prodigal Son,” Eliza heard Lord Hartwood mutter when they could no longer detect the sound of Lady Hartwood’s chair in the hallway.
“Indeed. I would hazard that your mother would far prefer to slaughter you than the fatted calf. But you are not blameless, either. Consider the provocation you offered her! Even if she had felt some tender feeling for you, she could hardly have expressed it in the face of such a calculated insult.”
“She feels no tender feeling for me.” His voice was harsh. “She never has. I never felt her hand on me as a child except in punishment.” He wheeled around, fixing her with an unsettling stare, his dark eyes almost wild. “You aren’t going to leave me now, are you?”
The hint of desperation in his voice was at odds with the pose of cool unconcern he affected. Reacting instinctively, she almost blurted out that he could depend on her, for it would be impossible for her to leave him now—but she caught herself and clamped her lips shut. The last thing she needed was to have him reproach her for a foolish partiality right now. But clearly he needed something, for in the silence that stretched out as she fought to regain her control, Lord Hartwood tugged savagely at his neck cloth as if it were strangling him. A flash of pain—real pain, not an actor’s imitation—swept over his features as he demanded, “By Gad, Eliza. Answer me!”
She struggled to keep her voice level. “Of course I shan’t leave you, sir. We made a bargain. I shall stay and help you do what you came here to do.”
He peered at her intently as if weighing her words. Then his face gradually relaxed and he let his breath out slowly. After carefully readjusting the points of his collar, he said, “I believe you really will stay.”
“Of course I will. What did you expect?”
He shrugged. “Expect? I would never attempt to predict a woman’s behavior. I’ll leave the predictions to you, my sage astrologer.”
His lips had again assumed that smile that had so little humor in it. His face wore once more its usual look of detached disdain. Only as he prepared to follow the butler up the stairs did he turn back and allow his eyes to meet hers. To her surprise, she saw a hint of tenderness flash through them, one that recalled the pain she had observed in them just moments before.
“You did very well just now, Eliza,” he said. There was almost no irony in his tone. “If I am not careful, I may find myself in your debt.”
“I am glad you are pleased with my performance, Your Lordship,” she replied briskly, curtsying to him. She would not again let herself forget the parts they were playing. His eyebrows rose at the exaggerated gesture. But he said nothing more, merely turning and ascending the main staircase.
A footman motioned Eliza to follow him to the servants’ staircase and she did so, taking care not to trip on the hem of her flimsy skirt. But as she climbed the four flights of the back stairs to the attics, it struck her that, for the first time since they had made their first bargain in his coach, Lord Hartwood was not entirely in control. He did need her support here in Brighton—and not only to play out a role.
It would not be easy to help him. The strong feelings he provoked in her were disturbing. She could not entirely trust herself to remain unmoved by them, as she had pledged she would. But overall, the scene that had just taken place in the parlor reassured her: There was work to be done here, just as his horoscope had suggested. He needed her help for much more than just the claiming of his inheritance. Any doubts she had entertained about the wisdom of accompanying him had vanished.
Chapter 7
It had been close to supper time when they had arrived, so after a footman showed her the small attic room where her things had been stowed, Eliza dressed quickly for dinner.
The emerald tiffany gown that Lord Hartwood had chosen for her to wear to dinner this night was, if possible, even more daring than the dress she had worn on her arrival. A band of nearly transparent openwork ran across the bodice, allowing more than a glimpse of her uncorsetted bosom to show through the lace’s many holes. It was a good thing it had been summer when she had agreed to play out this masquerade. To wear such a gown in an English winter would be to risk death from pneumonia!
As she put on the fatal necklace Lord Hartwood had decreed she wear, she wondered how his mother would respond to her presence at dinner. However, when Eliza entered the dining room at eight, doing her best to move across the room with the sinuous motion her protector had taught her and thrusting out her bosom proudly, her hostess showed no overt reaction to her presence. Indeed, the only hint she gave of the displeasure she must feel was that she pointedly did not introduce Eliza to her other guests, but merely gestured to the footman to seat her near the foot of the table.
The empty chairs on both sides of Eliza’s place remained empty even after the other guests had been seated. Placed by herself at the far end of the table and subjected to the undisguised curiosity of the others at the table, Eliza felt much like a child who has been sent to sit in front of the class in the dunce’s seat. But she was too fascinated by the scene that unfolded before her to waste her energy in responding to the slight. Her experience of elegant living had been hitherto confined to an occasional attendance at the local assembly rooms with her aunt, who did not take much pleasure in social occasions.
She had never before eaten at a table arrayed as lavishly as this one. The huge chandelier hanging from an elaborate plaster rosette set in the ceiling cast its light over the richly gleaming silver utensils, the translucent china, and the sparkling crystal goblets that furnished each place. The center of the table was taken up by a huge silver epergne on which was displayed every kind of fruit to be had at this season. Silver urns filled with flowers dotted the vast expanse of heavy damasked linen.
Lady Hartwood’s guests also gave off an air of luxurious wealth. They were dressed in the height of fashion, the women in high-waisted gowns festooned with lace and ribbons, the men in exquisitely tailored suits of superfine, in fashionably muted colors. Though they talked to each other in low voices and cultured accents as they awaited the serving of the first course, Eliza was surprised to note that the bodices of the gowns worn by several of the younger women were hardly less revealing than the scandalous gown in which Lord Hartwood had clothed her. Even so, it was her gown—and what it so barely concealed—attracting the notice of most of the gentlemen, several of whom had fixed her with speculative looks that made her distinctly uncomfortable.
As she felt them devouring her body with their eyes, she was glad her demimondaine status was just a pretense. It would not be pleasant to have men continually looking at one like this. Still, she co
uldn’t help but wonder at how by simply cutting her hair and donning what was, after all, a ridiculous costume, she, Eliza Farrell, long resigned to being a faded spinster, was able to call forth such a strong response from men.
Aunt Celestina had often said it was a mercy Eliza had not inherited the stunning beauty that had tempted her aristocratic father to elope with her mother in the defiant act that had caused her grandfather to disinherit her father and forced him to rely on his gambling for their maintenance. Her aunt had counted it a blessing that Eliza’s lack of looks protected her from the disasters that awaited impetuous beauties. But now as she observed the effect she was having on a roomful of gentlemen, aided only by a fashionable hairstyle, a little bit of lace, and very little bodice, Eliza wondered: Could she have turned out more like her mother than she had realized?
Lord Hartwood gazed over at her from time to time with obvious approval, allowing his eyes to linger on her bosom in a way that could not be ignored by anyone in the room. He stared until she could almost feel her nipples burning through the lacy fabric. Then, when she least expected it, he raised his warm brown eyes to meet her own, and when he did so, she felt a burst of uneasiness. Was this what her mother had felt when the fatal connection with her father had first begun? Had his aristocratic blue eyes held the treacherous charm and seductive speculation that she felt now radiating from Lord Hartwood’s mahogany gaze?
Hastily, she reminded herself that the passionate, smoldering looks he was sending her were merely part of the calculated performance the two of them had agreed to enact. He was no more attracted to her now than the vicar had been when she had played Lady Teazle to his Sir Peter. And the other men? They stared at her because she was supposed to be a notorious rake’s mistress and because Lord Lightning, living up to his outrageous reputation, had compelled his mother to entertain that mistress at her dining table. Most likely they were peering at her so intently because they were trying to imagine why a man as attractive and wealthy as he was would have bothered to take under his protection such a poor excuse for a mistress as herself.
But even so, though she had not touched her wine, Eliza felt almost drunk with the heady sensation of being the focus of so many eyes. What fun it must be to really be a beauty and draw men’s attention in this way. And as Lord Hartwood flirted with her so outrageously from his end of the table, she felt how intoxicating it was to meet the electrifying gaze of a handsome, sensuous man and to see approval in his eyes—indeed, something far stronger than approval. It was unsettling, but it was delightful too—as long as she didn’t make the mistake of ever forgetting it was all part of a game.
At length, the gentleman who sat the closest to her turned his head in her direction and attempted conversation. He had been introduced to her as a Mr. Snodgrass and, from what she had overheard from his previous conversation, he appeared to be a wealthy button maker whose factory here in Brighton made buttons out of the local seashells.
He was seated with his daughter, a quiet girl she judged to be about the same age as herself. The daughter wore a fashionable turbaned headdress that featured a tall ostrich plume and heavy and expensive jewelry that unfortunately emphasized the dullness of her thin face.
“Quite a lovely necklace you’ve got there,” Mr. Snodgrass said to Eliza in the loud voice of a person whose hearing was starting to go. “I count myself quite a judge of such things. Have to be in the business I’m in. My daughter there has a necklace quite like it, though I must say that I don’t think her stones are near as large as yours.”
This was the first speech that had been addressed to her since the dinner had begun, and she wondered how best to reply so as to maintain the character she was supposed to be portraying. But before she could answer, Lord Hartwood’s voice cut across the table, “Your daughter’s jewels could not possibly be anywhere near so large as my mistress’s. These were purchased from Rundell and Bridge on Ludgate Hill. They came from some Indian chap, a rajah. Worth a mort of money. Man there told me there was nothing like them to be had anywhere else.”
“I shouldn’t think there was,” said Mr. Snodgrass. “The necklace I bought my daughter was from Neate—he’s much cheaper than Rundell and Bridge, though I think the quality comparable. With Neate you’re not paying extra for the stylish address. But even so, he charged me a good two thousand pounds for them. Yours must have cost at least that much or more.”
“Far more,” Lord Hartwood said complacently. “If you were to guess at twenty thousand pounds, you’d be close. But what can we do?” he added with a studied lack of concern. “The women must have their little trinkets.”
The heads of all the diners swiveled as one as they stared at Eliza’s necklace, until she feared the concentrated power of their regard must soon set her neck ablaze. But she, too, could feel her eyes open wide in amazement. Twenty thousand pounds would have been enough money for she and her aunt to have lived on in comfort for the rest of their lives. To think that Lord Hartwood’s father had spent that much on a single gift for a mistress!
No wonder women left the paths of virtue. It struck her anew what an innocent she had been to have demanded only forty-five pounds from Lord Hartwood as the price of her own virtue. No wonder he had seemed so amused when he negotiated with her. She felt a burst of gratitude that he had not gone ahead and truly made her his mistress in return for such a paltry sum. She could not have respected a man who would have taken that kind of advantage of her naïveté.
A low hum of conversation had sprung up after Lord Hartwood’s disclosure, but it was cut short when his mother’s voice rose, silencing it. “Edward has always had an unfortunate tendency to extravagance.” She glared at her son from her place at the head of the table. “My poor dear James used to tell me he would outgrow it, but James was always so kind to his little brother and so willing to overlook his many faults.”
“James himself knew nothing of extravagance, Mother, did he?” her son replied coolly. “Yet, I cannot help but remember that it was poor dear James who introduced me to Rundell and Bridge. They were his favorite jeweler. Do you not remember that set of rubies he gave his wife? They were from that shop, too—” He paused dramatically. “Oh, no, I mistake myself. It was not his wife he gave those rubies to. It was that other woman.” And with that he turned his attention back to the plate of turbot before him.
He’d scored a hit. Eliza could see Lady Hartwood flinch, though almost imperceptibly. But it was not polite to stare—though just as she was about to turn her gaze away she remembered that in her role as a vulgar mistress she should stare as rudely as possible. So she raised her eyes again and locked eyes with Lady Hartwood, impudently, until Lady Hartwood herself turned away, visibly shaken.
It was strange to behave so dreadfully in public, but Eliza couldn’t help but admit there was a certain thrill of pleasure in doing it. She had always kept a tight rein on her emotions to reassure her aunt, who had given up so much to raise her, that she was not tainted with her mother’s or father’s failings. Now for a brief two weeks she could be someone else entirely, someone brazen and vulgar, someone who need not control her unruly impulses.
But it wasn’t wise to take so much pleasure from this new role. Not only would she have to guard her wayward heart from falling prey to Lord Hartwood’s seductive charm, she must also not let herself become too comfortable behaving brazenly, or how would she return to being a prudent woman when the fortnight was over and she gave up this new role?
Discomfited by these thoughts, she directed her attention back to her dinner, which was excellent. There was a delicate sauce on the fish with a hint of some herb she was unable to identify, something French perhaps. She’d heard many of the aristocracy now had French chefs to serve them. She cut off a piece of the fish and picked it up carefully with the fish fork, allowing herself a delicate sniff of the sauce before popping it into her mouth. Delicious! But as she chewed, she noticed that Lord Hartwood was staring at her fork with something of disapproval.
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What could she have done wrong? Aunt Celestina was something of a Tartar about table manners so she knew hers to be perfect. Of course! That was it. Her table manners were far too good for a woman of the class from which a man like Lord Hartwood would take a mistress. Immediately, she picked up her knife with her left hand, and pushed a few peas and some sauce onto it with the fingers of her right, before lifting it to her mouth. The peas disposed of, she licked the sauce off her fingers.
A look of pleasure flitted across Lord Hartwood’s face. Her gesture had made an impression on the others, too. The many eyes that had been following her throughout dinner looked away for a moment, embarrassed. Her slip had made them aware again of the unbridgeable gulf that lay between themselves and a woman of the sort she was supposed to be, no matter how beautiful. She applied herself to the fish with continued pleasure, chewing noisily while displaying her teeth. But as she ate, she sensed that one pair of eyes was still trained on her, a pair of cold gray eyes so very unlike her son’s warm brown ones.
Eliza felt herself shrink under their scrutiny. No matter what the others might have concluded about her manners, Lady Hartwood was not entirely taken in.
The dinner was almost over when a small commotion indicated that the last of the guests had arrived. Lord Hartwood rose to greet the new arrival and led her to the table. “Mother,” he said languidly, “I believe it has been some time since you have had the pleasure of meeting my father’s close friend, Mrs. Atwater, but you surely cannot have forgot her.”
Mrs. Atwater. His father’s mistress. The woman who had demanded that Hartwood’s father buy her the ruinous necklace that now lay around her own neck.
Lord Hartwood seated Mrs. Atwater in the empty chair to Eliza’s right. His mother sat like a stone, her eyes flickering from her husband’s mistress to her son’s, while refusing to acknowledge them in any other way.
