“No, I didn’t. But it’s obviously jewelry. Mrs. St. Vincent is an unusual woman, darling, you must admit. When have any of your lady friends ever returned any of your lavish gifts?”
“Bloody right she’s unusual,” he grumbled, dropping his arm. “She’s likely to cost me ninety thousand if I can’t get her to move.”
“Do you think perhaps you haven’t approached her properly, my dear.” Julia spoke with the patience and forbearance one would use addressing an unenlightened child. “She seemed quite reasonable to me.”
He rather thought he’d approached her every which way, diligently and repeatedly last night. “On the contrary, Mother, she is entirely unreasonable,” he brusquely said, not about to enter into a discussion with his mother on negotiation techniques. He half lifted the package. “Would you like these? I have no use for them.”
“Leave them if you wish, sweetheart. I’m sure I can find some purpose for them.” There is always the possibility the lady will want them back at some point. “Will you be home for tea? ”
“No. I’m about to go out.” After having his jewelry sent back, he had even more reason to see Hutchinson. He wanted this impasse resolved.
Chapter 15
IN A BETTER temper than he’d been on his previous visit, Fitz waited his turn in Hutchinson’s elegantly appointed reception room. Offered his choice of beverages by a solicitous clerk, he’d barely had time to finish his brandy when Hutchinson appeared in the doorway.
“A pleasure to see you again, Your Grace, and opportune. One of our agents just sent in some interesting information.”
“Excellent.” Fitz came to his feet. “Because Mrs. St. Vincent remains as obstinate as ever.”
“You’ve spoken to her again?” Hutchinson inquired.
“Yes.” He didn’t say when. As the men walked from the room, he said instead, “She’s determined to stay.”
“Women are less rational in their decision making. An observation based on considerable experience,” the barrister added with a lifted brow. “Very few women are motivated exclusively by money.”
Fitz smiled. “In contrast to men.”
“Indeed. After you, Your Grace.” Hutchinson waved Fitz into his office.
While Fitz took a seat, Hutchinson flipped through a mass of papers on his desk. “Ah, here it is,” he said, dropping into his chair. “Pernell’s report.” Sitting down, he quickly perused it. “Yes, there it is-Dilmore Jones. He’s an unsavory fellow, a gambling cohort of Edward St. Vincent.” Hutchinson looked up. “Men of Jones’s stamp are always willing to disclose what they know if the right sum of money is involved.”
Fitz leaned forward slightly. “What exactly does he know?”
“It seems Edward St. Vincent supplemented his poetry income with something less inspirational. He wrote erotica.”
Fitz smiled. “You don’t say-a favorite poet of the Queen’s writing risquй stories. Is there proof? More important, did his wife know about his sub-rosa activities?”
“As a matter of fact, we do have proof. Jones sold Pernell three of St. Vincent’s books. As for his wife being complicitous, we don’t yet know.”
“The publishers might know. With the books in hand you have their names or at least a clue to their identities.” Publishers of erotica were often fly-by-night operations with transient names and addresses that allowed them to stay one step ahead of the law. It was an era of boundless vices, public virtue, and epic hypocrisy.
Hutchinson nodded. “The publishers were obviously using pseudonyms, but the addresses were real-for sales reasons, I presume. Pernell already interviewed a Mr. Edding, who naturally denies any knowledge of either St. Vincent or his work.”
“So now what?”
“We keep the man under surveillance. As you might know, the obscenity laws are an indiscriminate hodgepodge, sometimes enforced, generally ignored. But occasionally-in extenuating circumstances-raids are made on such publishers… for the public good.”
“What if it were suspected that St. Vincent’s work was being harbored-say, at his former residence.” Fitz smiled faintly. “Might a raid be arranged.”
After a moment of consideration, Hutchinson said, “After talking to the right people, calling in a few favors, it could be done.” He raised a finger. “A word of warning, however. We would need to know whether such books exist before authorizing a raid. There is danger of incurring a lawsuit for defamation or breaking and entering should nothing be found.”
“Then her premises must be searched first. You have people who could do that?”
“Certainly. In her absence, of course. We can’t afford witnesses.”
Fitz frowned. “That could be a problem. She lives above the store.”
“Surely she goes out on occasion.”
“She must-yes, I’m sure she does,” Fitz replied, thinking of Rosalind’s friendship with Sofia. “As far as I know she doesn’t have hired help, so her socializing would be confined to the evenings.”
“We’ll put the store under surveillance and wait for an opportunity. We’ll also monitor the publisher. The threat of a prison term makes people like him vulnerable to pressure,” Hutchinson noted. “By the by, I sent one of my barristers north to speak to Mrs. St. Vincent’s parents. I thought if her family understood the sum she’d realize by selling the shop, they might influence her decision.”
Fitz rested back in his chair and smiled. “You are ever efficient.”
“The matter’s well in hand, Your Grace. Knowing what we know about St. Vincent’s supplementary activities strengthens our hand immeasurably. Should his erotica writings come to light, his wife’s options will be severely limited. England is not like the Continent, Your Grace. Our obscenity laws are not as lax.”
“If all goes well, perhaps we could start building in a fortnight,” Fitz murmured, eminently satisfied with the state of the investigation.
Hutchinson relaxed against his chair back as well, confident and at ease. “I can almost guarantee it, sir. Would you like a fresh brandy? I might have a wee dram myself to celebrate.”
Chapter 16
WHILE THE MEN were planning Rosalind’s denouement in Hutchinson’s office, she and Sofia were having tea-with lemonade in deference to the heat of the day. The air was still and sultry, customers were at home behind drawn shades, and the ladies were quite alone in the quiet of the gallery. The windows overlooking Rosalind’s sketchy patch of garden were open wide in the hope of some wayward breeze.
Sofia was lounging on a cast-off wicker sofa Rosalind had salvaged and recushioned, her spirits high, her conversation limited to one of two subjects: Arthur Godwin’s incredible prowess in bed or his gratifying promise to publish a glowing review of her work in the Times. “I know he means it, too,” she enthused. “I could tell by the way he raved about my talent”-she grinned-“my artistic talent, darling. As for the other, he’s sooo much better than Luke, I couldn’t begin to explain.”
“Nor need you do so,” Rosalind quickly interposed, more fastidious than Sofia when it came to detailing sexual intimacies. “He sounds as though he’s very nice, though.”
“Nice! I should say so.” Feigning a dramatic swoon, Sofia looked up and grinned. “Guess how many orgasms I had last night?”
Rosalind smiled. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Ten. Ten! Can you believe it! The man’s a veritable dynamo.”
“I’m pleased for you. You seem happier than you’ve been for some time.”
“I am…truly, truly. And considerably richer, too, which also inspires my good cheer.” She grinned for the umpteenth time. “Thanks to Groveland, of course. Did he stay, by the way?”
Rosalind’s face flushed with color.
“Obviously he did,” Sofia murmured, sliding up against the sofa-back cushions again. “I won’t ask you for an in-depth account because you’re blushing like a schoolgirl. But everyone knows Groveland’s the gold standard in bed; I expect you enjoyed yourself. I hear he
can be indifferent in the cold light of dawn, though. Did you find him likeable?”
“He seemed pleasant enough,” Rosalind replied neutrally.
Sofia smiled. “Really-just pleasant? Have you been keeping something from me-a lewd, libertine past of some kind,” she drawled, “that allows you to answer so blandly? Most women would give Groveland higher grades than just pleasant.”
Rosalind hesitated, then with obvious reluctance said, “He was highly skilled, imaginative, indefatigable, and gratifying in every way. Satisfied?”
“At least that sounds like Groveland.”
“Which is the problem,” Rosalind acidly noted. “He’s too familiar with the game, too practiced. I doubt he can distinguish one woman from another or remember who he’s been with from night to night.”
“Are you angry with him?”
“Of course not.”
“It sounds like you are.”
Rosalind didn’t immediately answer. She pouted fretfully and looked away for a moment before offering a limited accounting. “I discovered that he only slept with me in the hope I’d change my mind and sell the store. How’s that for the height of vanity, or is it venality? Or cold calculation?” She grimaced. “So, yes, I suppose I am angry. Mostly, that I was stupid enough to be duped by a smooth-talking, seductive rogue.”
“Relax, sweetie,” Sofia soothed. “Obviously you didn’t sell the store, so you weren’t, as you say, duped. You also had what you described as a night of gratifying sex with a man reputed to be a phenomenon in bed. Personally, I think you won all round.”
Sofia’s logical reasoning did much to mollify Rosalind’s vexation. “When you explain it like that…”
“It’s God’s own truth,” Sofia pointed out. “You’re just not thinking objectively because you’re focusing on Groveland’s mercenary motives. In contrast, his actual performance was superlative in every way you said. And that’s a more vital priority, it seems to me, than why he was in your bed.” She smiled slyly. “Which begs the question: How many times did you climax?”
“For heaven’s sake, Sofia!”
“You’re red as a beet so it must have been more than once. How many more?”
“I have no intention of telling you,” Rosalind muttered, shifting in her chair as a disquieting tremor of delectable recall stirred through her senses.
“Fine, don’t. But look, darling, you have some glorious memories if nothing else,” Sofia softly observed. “That’s not all bad.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Rosalind grudgingly conceded.
“And you’ve been celibate for ages. You absolutely needed some wild, passionate sex.”
“Sofia, good gracious, stop!”
“What if he comes back?” Sofia drawled, pale and ethereal against the cabbage rose chintz cushions. “Are you going to sleep with him again?”
“He’s not coming back, believe me. He left in a huff.”
“Did he now,” Sofia murmured, her pale brows lifting into delicate arcs. “A huff? I’m surprised. Groveland is known for his nonchalance.”
“He was in a rage over the store,” Rosalind explained. “It had nothing to do with me.”
“He has been relentless in his pursuit of your property. Just think, you may be the only person who has ever said no to him.”
“Then it’s about time the great and mighty Duke of Groveland realizes that he can’t have everything he wants in life,” Rosalind crisply declared. “The rest of us learned that stark truth long ago.”
“But, consider, darling, he is a duke-and a very wealthy one,” Sofia waggishly noted. “He’s always gotten everything he’s wanted.”
Rosalind smiled for the first time since their discussion had turned on Groveland. “I confess, the thought of having dealt him perhaps his first defeat in a life of endless privilege is gratifying.”
“As gratifying as sex with him?”
Rosalind looked amused. “Let’s just call it a draw.”
Sofia laughed. “So he’s that good.”
“Yes, indeed.” Only a Jesuit could have argued the point.
“Then why not use him again?” Sofia saw men as means to various ends; she was a modern woman in every sense of the generally disparaging term. Not that she noticed or cared.
“Like a gigolo, you mean?”
“Except in this case you don’t have to pay him. He’ll probably pay you.”
Rosalind looked startled. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean he always dispenses lavish gifts. Leighton’s model Flora said he sent her a very expensive ruby bracelet the next day. If he didn’t leave you anything, he’ll probably send you something today.”
“I should hope not! I’m not one of his doxies!”
Sofia shook her head in bemusement. “You’re soo old-fashioned, darling, and too decorous by half. Having sex with someone doesn’t make you a tart. All the society ladies sleep with everyone, and they certainly don’t regard themselves as hussies. They expect gifts, believe me.”
“Well I certainly have no intention of taking gifts from Groveland!”
“My God! He gave you something!” Sofia sat up straight and fixed Rosalind with a sharp look. “Don’t lie; you’re blushing clear down to your toes. Tell me! What did he give you?”
“I already sent them back.” Rosalind didn’t say with whom, wishing to avoid the grilling that would ensue.
“Sent them back? Not just one item? He must have had a really good time,” she teased. “Now, I really want all the details.”
Understanding an answer was required or Sofia would continue badgering, Rosalind said crisply, “He left some expensive jewelry, several things; I didn’t count them.”
“Oh Lord,” Sofia softly exclaimed. “You’re such a complete innocent. But a very sweet one,” she added with a smile. “Groveland must be absolutely flummoxed. I doubt anyone’s ever returned his pricey trinkets.” Sofia gave her friend a long, assessing look. “If you ask me, he’s going to be even more intrigued now.”
Pursed lipped, Rosalind shook her head. “He’s not intrigued, nor am I. We’re both very much not intrigued. We are, in fact, archenemies.”
“Whatever you say,” Sofia murmured, although she was thinking that the lady doth protest too much. Very interesting, Sofia reflected: the pure-in-heart Rosalind and the prodigal rake.
“Then what I say is enough about Groveland,” Rosalind firmly declared. “I’m finished discussing him. His servants came for his paintings a few hours ago, which means I will not have to see or think about the despicable man again!”
“Very well. No more talk of Groveland,” Sofia tactfully agreed. “Did I tell you Arthur is taking me to an exhibit at the National Gallery tonight?” The drama of Rosalind and Groveland would unfold all in good time, Sofia decided. She had but to sit back and wait for the curtain to rise.
“How nice. Which exhibit?”
“The Turner watercolors. You should come with us since you’re forever drooling over Turner’s work.”
Rosalind thought for a moment. “Maybe I will.”
“So you say, but you never actually do,” Sofia retorted. “Why not come this time? We’re going to visit some friend of Arthur’s afterward. He’s an up-and-coming architect with a new house in Holland Park. Modest, but in the newest style, Arthur says. You might even meet some nice man there. Someone exactly opposite of Groveland.”
When in the past Rosalind would have refused the invitation, she suddenly felt the need for some alternative to the potent memories of last night still roiling her brain. Despite her repudiation, she was finding it difficult to forget Groveland and the pleasure he so charmingly dispensed. “I will go with you this time,” she said decisively. “What are you wearing?”
“One of Glynis’s gowns. Wear the saffron silk she made for you. It’s wonderful with your hair.” Sofia smiled. “I’m glad you’re coming with us. Should Arthur bring an escort for you?”
“No, no, please,” Rosalind quickl
y replied, putting up her hand as further deterrent. “I just want to enjoy the show. I’m not in the mood to be entertaining.”
But all the talk of Groveland had set her creative juices flowing, and after Sofia left, she sat in a comfortable chair near the window and quickly filled fifteen pages of her notebook with the opening scene of a new series.
In her excitement over the new story that was practically writing itself, Rosalind closed the store for ten minutes during a lull in the afternoon and ran the first chapter over to Mr. Edding.
After nervously waiting for a customer to leave his shop, she dropped her pages on the counter and said with a degree of agitation, “I can’t wait. I locked up my shop to dash over here. It’s the first chapter of my new series, The Duke’s Doxy.”
“Capital! We go to press tonight so it’s very opportune! Wait, wait, let me pay you,” he quickly added as Rosalind made for the door. Swiftly counting out the bills, Mr. Edding slipped them into an envelope and slid it across the counter.
A moment later, he watched Mrs. St. Vincent rush away and began mentally estimating the profits he’d realize from a second series by his very popular new author.
The moment the store closed for the day, Mr. Edding saw that Rosalind’s first chapter was delivered to the printer in the East End.
It would be hot off the presses and on sale in the morning.
Chapter 17
YOU’RE FINALLY BACK,” Julia said, walking into Fitz’s dressing room without knocking shortly after seven. “I need you to change your plans, darling. Kemal has deserted me.”
“You could knock, Mother,” Fitz drawled, taking his shirt from Darby and waving him out.
“Pshaw! As if I haven’t seen you half-naked before.” Dropping into a chair in a swish of green silk skirts, the duchess smiled at her son, dressed only in trousers. “I won’t require your escort for long, darling. An hour or so early in the evening. Kemal had promised to take me to the Turner exhibit, but then some tiresome diplomatic crisis came up.” She waved her hand dismissively. “In any case, I’m off to Bunny’s dinner afterward-don’t scowl… I’m not asking you to accompany me to that event. So you see it’s nothing more than a little slice of your time this evening. That won’t be so bad, will it?” she cheerfully finished.
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