by Lynn Kerstan
The heel of her boot slammed down on his toe.
“Bloody hell!” He lept out of her way.
She darted past him to the cab, but he caught up in time to cover her gloved hand on the door latch with his own. Bryn heard her sigh, as if resigning herself to an obnoxious fate. When he offered his arm to help her mount, a feathery touch at his wrist was all he felt as she lifted with the grace of a seabird riding an updraft. Then, in a singularly swift motion, she yanked the door shut, the hard edge clipping his shoulder as it whizzed by.
Witch. He swore under his breath. Folding his arms across the bar of the open window, he peered into the dim coach. She could see him clearly through that veil, while he could see nothing of her at all. He resented her impertinence. And was annoyed with himself for his bad manners even as he persisted. For no reason he could explain, he wanted to prolong their encounter. “Shall I give the coachman your direction?” he inquired silkily. “Or join your expedition?”
Head tilted slightly, the Blue Lily raised her hand toward his cheek. For a second he thought she was going to touch him, but she reached higher, and with a sharp crackle the window shade snapped down in his face. A rap of her knuckles against the wood panel set the cab in motion, and the great back wheel barely missed rolling over his Hessian boots.
Repique, he thought, watching the hackney lumber down the street. Apparently he was not to her taste.
He chuckled. Nor she to his, of course. Like the other blossoms in Florette’s bouquet, the Blue Lily must long since have been plucked. And if she knew who he was, she had no reason to encourage his feigned advances. The Earl of Caradoc’s requirements were met by special order. This full-blown flower, however lovely she might be under all that rigging, could expect no more from him than flattering male appreciation—from a distance.
He was amazed he’d even touched her.
Bryn mounted the stairs, handed his gloves to the burly footman, and proceeded without ceremony to Florette’s private salon. After that public and rather embarrassing display, no doubt she was fully aware he had arrived.
Seated before a delicate curve-legged table, Flo beamed at him with unconcealed amusement. Steam wafted from the antique Chinese porcelain teapot on the tray, clouding her gold-rimmed spectacles. “As you see,” she greeted him, “there is shortbread.” She held up a blue-and-white plate. “I was expecting you.”
“I daresay.” Lowering himself onto the fragile chair across from her, he gathered several of the buttery sticks in his hand and popped one whole into his mouth. Flo knew all his weaknesses.
She poured him a cup of tea and laced it with thick honey. “How very late you are, chéri. Marita has been gone these last few weeks. Never tell me you’ve been ill?”
The earl stretched his long legs across the Aubusson carpet. “Shall I assume Miss Sanchez reported to you”—he grinned wryly—“everything?”
Florette shook her head. “Ah, my dear, a chamber pot? What did you do, to make her so angry?”
“Devil if I know. She told me she was leaving, I said adiós, and that set her off. Threw everything at me she could get her hands on. The chamber pot was empty, by the way.”
“Tsk-tsk. A quarrel with your mistress, on your birthday. ’Twas a night to celebrate, je crois.”
He shrugged. “That was certainly my intention. I’d anticipated a wild Spanish corrida, as only Marita could stage, but she claimed ears and tail before I got into the ring. Furious because I didn’t take her to the birthday dinner at the Laceys’, I suppose. My back-alley Spanish isn’t what it used to be.” He leaned against the cushion behind him and crossed his ankles. “No mistress, whatever her charms, is welcome at ton affairs, ma fille. I trust you’ll find me a replacement somewhat less encroaching, not to mention volatile. That little chili pepper nearly took my head off with a candlestick.”
Selecting a thin cucumber sandwich, Florette regarded it thoughtfully. “I am afraid,” she said slowly, “there will not be a replacement. Not one I can supply, at any rate.” She nibbled at the soft white bread. “As of Wednesday last, I am retired from the trade.”
The earl gazed at her blankly. “Tell me you don’t mean that,” he said in a dark voice. The consequences, at least for him, were disastrous. When she failed to reply, he levered himself from the spindly chair and aimed for the mahogany sideboard where she stowed his special vintage brandy.
Bryn took his time fixing the drink while the implications sank in. He’d never had a woman Florette didn’t find for him. What the hell was he going to do now?
Florette LaFleur was about as French as the Prince Regent. When her accent slipped he detected a faint Yorkshire drawl, but that was the only clue to her origins he’d deciphered in the years he’d known her. Like everything else between them, his attempts to penetrate her disguise turned into a game they both played for the delight of matching wits.
She must be well into her fifties by now, still attractive although her lush figure had ripened to plumpness. She’d been a spectacular beauty when they first met, to transact the sale of this very house. Lost in memories, he rummaged on the sideboard for a corkscrew and dug the sharp metal point into the cork.
She’d managed to take him royally on that deal. Bribed his solicitor, he suspected, and made off with the only thing of value he owned for half its worth. Smiling, he recalled her dismay when a skinny adolescent showed up to sign the papers. Florette concluded the sale without upping her offer, but her conscience prodded her to invite him to dinner. He jumped at the chance for a rare good meal, and the friendship forged that evening had endured for twenty years.
Swallowing two fingers of brandy in a single gulp, he refilled the glass. What would he do without Florette? She was the best thing that ever happened in his life. The afternoon they’d closed the deal on this house, with a knowing glance at his straining breeches, she’d offered him a night of pleasure to compensate him for a loss he wasn’t downy enough to recognize.
He had refused, necessarily, regretting it then as he did now. Just once, he would have liked to make love to Florette LaFleur.
Swirling the amber liquid in his glass, he remembered the first time he tasted brandy. It was in this room, that same evening, when he drank too much too fast and blurted the real reason he couldn’t touch her. After what happened to his father, he did not dare take any lover who’d ever been with another man. He expected Flo to laugh, but she drew him into her arms and hugged him warmly. Now that he thought about it, another first. A good day, all in all. He had immediately acquired a strong taste for hugs and brandy.
The night was even better. Florette obliged him with his first virgin, free of charge, a shy, petite girl only a bit more ignorant than he. She had light curly hair, he recalled fondly, and her name was Polly. Thank the stars she had a sense of humor and few expectations.
There had been three mistresses since, each one provided by Florette. She was the only one he trusted. Virginity was easily faked, and while he was expert enough by now to discern a fraud, the proof was in the taking. By then, too late for safety. He needed Florette! At any cost, he couldn’t afford to lose her.
“Don’t do it, Flo,” he barked over his shoulder. “If this is one of your games, it’s not funny.”
“I have already sold out,” she said calmly. “To Rose.”
“The devil you say!” Pivoting, he glared at her. “I can’t stand that woman. She’d filch pennies off a dead man’s eyes.”
“A good businesswoman, though.” Flo tapped long nails against an ivory-handled fan. “For all purposes but your own, she will do well.”
“And what about my purposes? I’ll have no woman that strumpet dredges from the stews.” He paced the room with one fist clenched behind his back and the other wrapped around a glass of brandy. “Tell me you are staying in London. No reason we can’t do private business.”
“I’m packed, all but gone already, and nothing will change my mind. The fact is, you are to all extents and purposes back o
n the streets. I’ll provide the names of my competitors, should you require their services, but you’d do better to find yourself a wife.” She flicked open her fan and studied the painted goldfish swimming over crisp folds of heavy parchment. “Indeed, I’ve likely done you a disservice all these years, dealing out one mistress after another while you put off the inevitable. You must marry, Bryn. You’re five-and-thirty years old, you know.”
Groaning, he plucked another hunk of shortbread as he stalked past the tea tray. “Don’t remind me. By now I should be dangling an heir on my knee. But things got out of hand.” He shot her a sideways glance. “The war didn’t help.”
“Five years in the army,” she pointed out, “does not account for three times as many spent catering to your own pleasures. No, no,” she protested, waving her fan when he spun on his heel. “Don’t snap at me. You must do as you wish, and heaven knows you will. The thing is, I shall no longer be here to stock Clouds with a supply of suitable mistresses. It is time you think about settling down. The Season is barely under way, and a fresh crop of debutantes awaits your inspection.”
“You might have given me some warning,” he grumbled. “I can’t look over the field with nothing to go home to at night. Even if I fix on a bride, it will be weeks before the wedding. And the wedding night.”
Did he look as pathetic as he felt? Bryn wondered. He’d come here with the familiar twinge of anticipation and dread he always experienced when replacing a mistress, but never had he imagined the roof was about to cave in. As he bit ferociously into the crisp biscuit, his eyes suddenly narrowed. In fact, Florette would not leave him high and dry. He’d bet everything he owned she had something up her sleeve.
His prowl eased into a languid, graceful stroll around the room, ending at the chair across from her, where he settled with his arms folded across his chest. “A wife,” he mused, gazing at the ornate ceiling. “I’ve done the pretty every season these many years, but each crop of eligible females is more insipid than the last. Don’t think I haven’t tried. Come to think of it, didn’t I offer for the Berrington girl?”
“Fifteen years ago, when you couldn’t afford a decent settlement.” Wickedly, Flo plucked the last chunk of shortbread from the dish. “Now your tastes are too refined. Nothing suits you.”
He grinned. The first three mistresses she’d provided had suited him very well, although Marita Sanchez had been a rare aberration from the type of woman he preferred. While the bed sport had been unparalleled in frequency and variety, her temperament was even worse than his own. Marita was a good argument for finding a demure English bride and settling down, which Florette damn well knew. More than likely, she’d planned it that way.
Her smile revealed nothing as she fluttered her fan and regarded him through the spectacles perched on her nose. “You will miss me, sans doute. I expect to be gone within the week.”
Recognizing a lure, he swam past. “Off to France, are you? The Loire Valley, as I recall. Near Blois.”
Flo acknowledged his swift dodge with a wink. “Exactement, chéri. To my family home, in a village so obscure I doubt it can be found on any map.”
And he was Queen of the Nile. Bryn raised an eyebrow. “You’ll provide me way to write you, or perhaps find myself in your direction?”
“But of course. When you send word of your nuptials, I’ll ship a case of the best champagne to be had.”
Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees and templed his hands. “And what has all this to do,” he inquired tranquilly, “with the Lady in Blue?”
“Ah.” The fan wagged appreciation. “I knew you would not fail me, Bryn. When did you suspect?”
“Not soon enough. But this is the last place I’d expect to troll for a wife. No wonder she was wrapped up like a mummy.”
“Wife?” Looking startled, Flo shook her head. “Oh, no, mon ami. No woman suitable to become Countess of Caradoc would set foot in this place. When Marita took her leave, I cast about for a young woman to replace her. Not an easy task, considering how very particular you are of late. But … well, you must judge for yourself. This one is on the house, as they say, by way of a parting gift. If she will have you. She insisted on seeing you first.”
“Indeed.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Aspiring mistresses don’t vet me, poupée. Rather the other way around.”
“Generally true,” she conceded. “But times change.”
Didn’t he know it. “And what is the name of this gift?”
“Perhaps ‘gift’ is not the right word,” Flo said meditatively. “For myself, there will be no commission, but Clare has requirements of her own.” She cast him a smug look. “Expensive requirements.”
“Clare what?” He winced at the impatience in his voice. “And how much?”
“Clare whatever-she-tells-you. And if she approved of what she saw, which I cannot know until I speak with her again, one night will cost you ten thousand pounds.”
“The devil it will!” Lurching to his feet, Bryn towered over the graceful tea table. “What in hell makes that rapacious female imagine I’d pay out a fortune for one night? And don’t tell me you led her to believe it was possible.”
“You can afford it,” Flo said imperturbably.
“Which is nothing to the point. I hate the first night.” Bryn felt the tips of his ears go hot. “What in blazes does she think I am?”
“Clare reveals nothing of what she is thinking. Not ever. Pray do not loom over me that way. It is most annoying.”
Firing her a look of pure malice, he stomped to the sideboard.
“Bryn, the real point cannot have escaped you. Clare is the last virgin I shall provide. If she agrees to meet you, perhaps you can negotiate better terms for the future. However, her price for the first night is inflexible. As a matter of fact, I don’t expect you to accept her. She is lovely, untouched, and available, but otherwise she’ll not suit you at all.”
He swung around. “And why is that?”
When Flo lifted her eyes, he saw the flash of cunning. “Clare is … not the usual young woman anxious to enter my profession. But she is determined to do so, however briefly. Her innocence fulfills your primary requirement, and your wealth satisfies her own. Beyond that I have little hope. Shall I tell her you are not interested?”
Bryn ran a finger under his starched collar. The mysterious Clare did not sound a suitable mistress, but Florette was deliberately trying to interest him by making the girl sound like forbidden fruit. He was well and truly hooked, he thought savagely, with Flo enjoying every minute of this. She was bent on victory in their last game and knew she held a winning hand.
“I am curious,” he allowed, “as you intended. And less interested than you hope. Now give over. What makes this one special?”
“Why, nothing at all. In bed, is not one woman much like the next? I doubt Clare found any fault in your appearance, for you are too handsome for your own good. But she may reject your offer nonetheless.”
“An offer I’ve not made,” he pointed out. There were wheels within wheels in this plot, and he was as anxious as she knew he’d be to trace it to the center. Damn Florette, and damn Clare, and loneliness, and lust.
And damned if he’d agree to anything until he’d inspected her the way she inspected him. If she wasn’t the most desirable woman on the planet, he would bloody well discipline his raging body the way he’d done, painfully, the years he’d spent attached to Wellington’s staff. On the Peninsula there were none of Florette’s virgins to ease the lonely nights. Surely it wouldn’t take another five brutal years of celibacy to find himself a wife.
“How much,” he asked acidly, “will it cost me to see her?”
“Why, nothing at all, assuming she agrees. For ten thousand pounds, she will expect to provide an audition. By sight only, of course. She won’t let you touch her until you’ve paid up in cash. As a personal favor, Bryn, I would ask you not to meet her out of trifling curiosity. If you’ve no real interest, let it go
.”
His spine tickled a warning. “Just what is she to you?” he asked warily.
Flo tossed her head. “Goods. Wares. I’d market her carefully, with an eye to profit, were I not leaving the trade. As it is, I offer her to you without any charge of my own if you promise to treat her fairly. In honor of our years together.”
“Our friendship,” he corrected with a lopsided smile.
“Exactly.” Florette adjusted her spectacles and gazed fondly at the tall earl. He was combing his long fingers through the thick straight hair that must have defied his valet’s best efforts to control it. One swatch gravitated inevitably over his right eyebrow, giving him a boyish look at odds with the arrogance so natural to him it was more amusing than offensive. In a peculiar way, she thought of him as her son, although he’d be horrified if he knew that. Never had she met a man so determined to avoid emotional entanglements of any sort.
In most ways, he’d grown up too soon. But in others, he’d yet to mature. She had decided it was past time to shake him up, and by good fortune she had found the means to do so. “You have made me a wealthy woman, Bryn,” she said in a complacent voice. “Once you were able to pay, you more than compensated for my generosity in the early days. I could not possibly retire so young if not for your lavish commissions and your advice about how to invest them.”
“Had I anticipated the consequences, pernicious woman, you’d not have done so well by me.” His eyes were shuttered. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m retiring,” she assured him tartly, “not sticking my spoon in the wall. When things have settled, I’ll be in touch. Shall I send Clare to you?”
“Tomorrow morning,” he replied gruffly. “Eleven o’clock. Send her to Clouds.” He frowned. “No, better not. The place is a shambles after Marita’s theatrical exit. Make it St. James’s, and have her come in through the servants’ entrance. I won’t bite her, Flo, but for that amount of money I’ll damn well find out what’s under all those veils before making up my mind.”