“What do I care?” her mother said, hissing impatiently. “This place could be managed by a rag-picker, for all I am concerned. For all you are concerned as well.”
“I—” Caro opened her mouth to defend her decisions and to argue all the reasons that her mother should, indeed, care, but she came up short at the tail end of her mother’s statement. “I most certainly do care about the quality of education and attention offered at the institution I am such an integral part of.”
“You won’t be part of it for long,” her mother said with a sigh. “Now fetch your bonnet and come along.”
“I will not.” Caro regretted how much like a disobedient child she sounded. Even more so when her mother glared at her with a ferocity that made even Caro’s stalwart heart quiver. “That is,” she corrected herself, voice hoarse, “I require an explanation before I abandon my work here.”
“You require nothing,” her mother boomed. “You will do as you are told.” She paused, then clicked her tongue impatiently. “Very well, if it will stop you from being so stubborn.”
Something about the way her mother made the comment forced Caro to realize she’d crossed her arms tightly and was facing her mother with the same insolent look she’d worn as a girl of fifteen being forced to hold her tongue at family gatherings. She let her arms drop and assumed a more dignified, mature posture. Unfortunately, that brought a pleased smile to her mother’s face, which Caro loathed.
“You are to be married,” her mother said a moment later, wiping all expression from Caro’s face.
“Married?” Her stomach twisted and her thoughts flew instantly to Rufus. It was one thing to think of him forced to engage himself to another woman—something she was still determined would never happen—but it was quite another to find herself in the line of fire.
“Yes,” her mother said with a sniff. “And to the heir to an earldom as well.”
Caro’s brow flew up. Her mother had thought enough of her to engage her to the heir to an earldom? Surely that was the sort of honor that should have gone to her perfect, glorious, well-behaved, younger sister, Georgiana. Georgiana could do no wrong. Georgiana was the darling, perfect daughter. Georgiana was the one who had let slip to her mother that Caro was none other than the notorious authoress, Mrs. Vickers, and who had stood by with a smirk when the decision was announced that Caro was to be banished from the family for all time. Georgiana was the one who had suggested Caro’s name be struck from the family Bible. Thank God her mother had balked at taking things that far—it would have caused a horrific scandal—or Caro didn’t know what would have become of her.
“Well, don’t just stand there like a ninny,” her mother sighed. “Fetch your bonnet at once, child. We’re expected at the Herrington’s immediately.”
For what felt like the dozenth time in one conversation, Caro’s heart dropped to her stomach and her stomach dropped to her knees. They didn’t stay there, though. Both organs leapt with joy and hope, lodging firmly in her throat. It couldn’t be. Rufus was the heir to an earldom and he was in search of a wife. Caro had never imagined Lord Barnabus Herrington, Rufus’s father, would deem her capable of saving his family’s fortune, but fate seemed to have stepped in. It seemed as though Caro was destined to repeat Jo’s unaccountable luck and to have her wretched mother accidently engage her to precisely the right gentleman.
“I’ll fetch it at once,” she said, her voice hoarse as she turned and raced for the stairs. And if there were time, she would change her gown to something more fetching and pinch her cheeks until they glowed like roses. Although nothing could put a bloom on her face quite as determinedly as discovering true love was a mere carriage ride away.
Chapter 3
Lord Rufus Herrington felt like a caged bear as he stood behind the elegant sofa where his mother sat, reigning over a morning salon that felt more like a precursor to an execution than a polite social event.
“And do you suppose supplies of French lavender will be more readily accessible, now that the war has ended?” Lady Malvis Cunningham asked from her seat across the fashionable cluster of chairs and sofas from his mother. Her posture was rigid and her face was an expressionless mask of calm—far different from the vibrant cunning that lit Caro’s eyes and with none of the splash of color that usually filled Caro’s cheeks.
“One can only hope,” Rufus’s mother replied in a banal voice. “Just as one can only hope that certain elements of society will now return to their rightful places.”
Rufus tried not to roll his eyes noticeably at his mother’s comment. She had spent the last twenty years or more torn between her innate hatred of the French and her indignation that aristocracy of any sort could be treated as meanly as the Revolutionaries had treated French nobility. Now that the war was over, Napoleon was defeated, and Britain was seeking to restore France to its pre-Revolutionary status quo—something Rufus doubted would ever truly happen—the frogs, as his mother called them, could return to the continent and stop turning heads at London social events.
“At least we can be assured that French fashions will once again become dominant,” Lady Andover, one of his mother’s friends who had been invited to the unusual event said, then launched into a discourse about pelisses and sleeve styles.
Rufus would have pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration if he could have. There was a reason men and women did not generally take tea together of a morning. Ever since Lord and Lady Cunningham and Malvis had arrived, and shortly after the other guests—Lady Andover, and for some bizarre reason, Lord Hazelton—had joined Rufus and his parents in the large parlor, Rufus had wanted to crawl out of his skin and run. At least his father looked to be experiencing the same degree of torture. Although after the marriage his father was proposing for him, it served him right.
“One can only hope that the odious Mrs. Vickers will stop publishing her scandalous stories now,” his mother went on.
“Oh?” Lady Cunningham blinked rapidly, her cheeks going pink. “And why would she stop?”
“She is French, obviously,” Rufus’s mother said with a sniff. “Only a Frenchwoman would write such….” She sipped her tea rather than finishing her sentence.
“Yes, I suppose she is French,” Lady Andover said. “Her stories do have a rather continental flare to them.”
“Who is this Mrs. Vickers?” Rufus’s father asked, interrupting his conversation with Lord Cunningham.
“An authoress,” Rufus’s mother said, then quickly added, “You would never have heard of her,” with a wave of her hand.
“I’ve heard of her,” Lord Cunningham said with a frown. “She writes salacious trash.”
“And she makes a fortune at it,” Lord Hazelton said. “Ruddy good stuff,” he added with a look at Lady Cunningham that made her shudder in clear disgust.
“I find her work quite invigorating,” Lady Andover said, fanning herself with one hand.
In fact, if Rufus had to wager, he’d bet that every woman in the room, including his mother, had read Mrs. Vickers’s work. Every woman in London was talking about them. He’d indulged in a few of her books himself and found them quite inspiring. Of course, ever since Caro had nestled firmly in his heart, that inspiration had extended no further than his right hand, but he had every confidence that soon he would find a way to enact the things he’d read with the only woman he cared to imagine himself with for the rest of his life.
“When I am wed, I expect my husband to indulge my passion for French fashion,” Lady Malvis said, changing the subject and sending a sharp, unsmiling, but blessedly brief glance in Rufus’s direction and tumbling him out of his thoughts. “One’s outward appearance is a reflection of one’s inner standing, after all.”
Rufus nodded, but only because he felt he was supposed to. Judging by Lady Malvis’s outward appearance, she was as stodgy and grim on the inside as she was on the outside. She had the pale complexion of a young woman who deliberately avoided all sun and fresh air. Her gown was of fi
ne material, but cut far too modestly for Rufus’s taste. The neckline was indeed all the way at her neck. Not that it would do much good if it were lower. If Lady Malvis had breasts—and he was certain she must have had them in there somewhere, perhaps bound tightly to her narrow chest—they were hopelessly buried. The woman was all angles and thin lines. If he went through with his father’s demands and married the woman, he had no idea how he would bed her. He couldn’t help but imagine her breaking like a wishbone when he pried her legs apart.
“Do you not think so, Rufus?” his mother asked, jerking him out of his increasingly desperate thoughts.
“Yes, Mother,” Rufus said with a nod, no idea what his mother was asking him.
She seemed satisfied and nodded. “As I said.” She turned back to Lady Malvis. “The Italian States are entirely unnecessary when visiting the continent.”
Rufus clenched his jaw. In fact, he’d been to Florence once and enjoyed it thoroughly. He had a hankering to return to the Italian peninsula to explore more someday. Caro would certainly enjoy a holiday in the Mediterranean sun. He could imagine her decked out in Grecian costume, strolling about sunlit fields with one breast exposed. Or both. Or she could traipse through the meadows in the nude. He wouldn’t mind. It was Italy after all.
“I bet I know what’s put that spark in your cannon,” Lord Hazelton said with a randy undertone, stepping up to Rufus’s side.
Rufus dragged himself out of thoughts he would much rather have existed in, compared to the parlor where he actually stood, and stared hard at the older, ruddy-faced man. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“It’s that tasty morsel of yours, isn’t it?” Hazelton asked, wiggling his eyebrows. “That delicious Lady Charlotte or Catherine or some such?”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about,” Rufus insisted even as his face grew hot. He glanced around the room to be certain no one was listening to Hazelton. Luckily for him, his mother and Lady Andover were still deep in whatever boring discussion they were having with Lady Malvis and her mother while Lord Cunningham and his father discussed business.
“Lady Caroline,” Hazelton said in an entirely more confident tone of voice. He made an appreciative sound that left Rufus wanting to throttle him. “She’s a gem, that one, and I’ve known more than a few gems in my day.” He laughed at his own joke.
Rufus’s mother paused in the middle of her conversation to turn to Hazelton with an incredulous frown. Rufus clenched his jaw and drew Hazelton away from the circle of women and over to the side of the room.
“Lord Hazelton,” he began in a tone that was admittedly too scolding for a young man to use with a more seasoned one. “I’m sure you are aware of the level of discretion involved in any activities engaged in at a revelry hosted by Mr. Khan.”
“The tits on Lady Caroline, though,” Hazelton said, grunting with lust and adjusting his breeches. “I meant what I said when I offered two guineas to have you tup her while she sucks my—” He had enough of a sliver of sense to glance back at the women instead of finishing his sentence.
“You never made such an offer, sir,” Rufus told him, pretending he and Caro hadn’t heard the disgusting man through the door while hiding. “I am offended that you would do so now.”
“Come on, man,” Hazelton said with a wry grin. “You and I both know which way the wind is blowing. And we know good and well what Khan’s place is good for. I’ve found quite a few tasty morsels to add to my collection there. In fact, I think you’d be astounded to know about my latest acquisition which was discovered at Khan’s house.” He wiggled his eyebrows again.
Rufus’s stomach turned, and he was on the verge of finding a way, any way, to put the man off, but a flash like lightning struck his mind. “Acquisitions?” he asked. “What do you mean by acquisitions? Are you a buyer of exotica?” And if he was, did he have something to do with the Chandramukhi Diamond?
“I have refined tastes,” Hazelton said. “I collect whatever trinkets strike my fancy, the rarer the better.”
Rufus’s heart beat faster at the potential confession.
“I’ve had women of every shape, color, and description,” he went on in an undertone, barely moving his lips as he spoke, as if trying to hide what he was saying from any prying ears. “That Indian princess Khan keeps in his house is an especially talented gem. I’ve had a whole crown full of them. But I am about to acquire the most precious gem of all, as I’m certain you’ll agree.”
Rufus’s back prickled with revulsion and irritation. At the same time, he couldn’t completely shake the thought that women were only one sort of gem Hazelton collected.
“Is this acquisition of yours—” he began, but was cut off as a flurry of activity marked yet another arrival to his parents’ odd assembly.
“Ah, there’s my crowning jewel now,” Hazelton said, rubbing his hands together. “And I never would have thought to inquire after her if I hadn’t seen how up for it she is, thanks to you.”
Dread filled Rufus’s stomach as he jerked toward the doorway to the parlor just as Caro stepped into the room.
Caro’s heart was light as a cloud as she arrived at the Herrington’s Mayfair house. She couldn’t believe her luck, simply couldn’t believe it. Her elation continued to lift her as the butler showed them into a parlor that was rather crowded with an odd assortment of men and women. Her mind skipped right over the unusual gathering as her eyes went straight to Rufus. She burst into a smile at the sight of him and was only slightly puzzled when the look Rufus sent her in return was one of horror.
“Ah, Lady Pepys,” a middle-aged woman that Caro assumed was Lady Herrington greeted her mother as she stood. “How lovely of you to join us.”
Intent on making a good impression, Caro turned to Lady Herrington, ready to curtsy with perfection and treat the woman with gratitude and affection. But the moment her gaze slipped past Lady Herrington to land on a sallow, sour-faced Lady Malvis, the butterflies that had been flitting happily in her stomach turned to stones that dropped into a pond of acid in her gut. Was she expected to somehow compete with Lady Malvis for Rufus’s hand?
“Lady Herrington,” her mother said, crossing to greet Lady Herrington in a faux embrace. “How good of you to host this auspicious gathering. As you know, my dear, dear Georgiana is unwell at the moment and cannot abide visitors in our house.”
Caro arched one eyebrow. That was the first she’d heard of her sister’s health.
“I am only too glad to be of service,” Lady Herrington said. “The occasion is perfect for Cupid’s arrow to find its mark in more than one young person’s heart.” She glanced obviously between Lady Malvis and Rufus.
Caro’s heart sunk along with her stomach. If her mother hadn’t brought her to the Herrington’s to announce her engagement to Rufus, then who—
“Lady Caroline, it is a pleasure indeed to see you looking so well.”
A scream of protest threatened to rip from Caro’s throat as none other than Lord Hazelton rushed forward to take her hand. She’d been so blinded by the gorgeous sight of Rufus that she hadn’t noticed the aging lecher standing by Rufus’s side. He grabbed her hand and raised it to his lips before she could shrink away from him, managing to make even that simple gesture feel as though he were thrusting a hand up her skirts.
“Lord Hazelton,” she said, her voice coming out in a croak. She extracted her hand from his grip and turned to her mother. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Lord Hazelton has asked for your hand in marriage,” her mother said, wearing a plastered-on smile that failed to reach her eyes. “Being heir to his father’s earldom and an estate worth a king’s ransom, of course your father and I could not refuse.”
“Papa is ancient, the dear old man,” Lord Hazelton said with laugh. “Refuses to give in, though. Still, I thought it wise to get a wife so that I can get an heir of my own before the yoke of responsibility falls on my shoulders. And seeing as I know we are of the same mind on
so many things, the match will be perfection.” He wiggled his eyebrows. It was an expression she’d seen him make far too many times at the East India Company’s house. It put her off then and outright revolted her now.
“I’m certain we do not have much in common,” she said in a low voice.
“Oh, but I know we do,” he said in an equally low voice, as though they were alone instead of being watched by half a dozen people.
Unlike being observed in an intimate moment at one of Mr. Khan’s parties—where a paradoxical understanding about observation, titillation, and discretion existed—Caro felt the scrutiny of Lady Herrington’s guests as though they were High Court judges.
Caro cleared her throat, stepping closer to her mother and whispering, “I do not consent to this marriage.”
Smile still firmly in place, her mother whispered back, “You will do as you’re told.”
Shaking with rage, Caro stepped back, clasping her hands tightly in front of her and sending Rufus a look as if to tell him she would find a way out of the mess. There was no point whatsoever in debating her mother in public. To do so would mean she ran the risk of being marched to the nearest chapel and wed to Lord Hazelton on the spot, never to return to the school—which she was coming to love—or her friends ever again.
“Tell us, Lord Hazelton,” Lady Herrington said in a supremely diplomatic tone, gesturing for Caro’s mother to sit on the closest sofa to her, “when do you plan to wed?”
“As soon as possible,” Lord Hazelton answered. He attempted to sidle up to Caro’s side, but Caro faked a coughing fit as an excuse to move to the edges of the room, closer to Rufus. That didn’t dissuade Lord Hazelton from talking. “I have grand plans for my lovely bride. I intend to shower her with bridal gifts that will make a sultan jealous. Gems for my gem, after all. And then I plan to take her on a grand tour, not just of Europe, but of the world. We shall tour the far East and the West Indies. I will adorn her with exotic treasures on the island of Tahiti and in the courts of Imperial China.”
The Clever Strumpet Page 3