by Shirl Henke
Amber held up her hand to silence her friend, then whispered, “Nothing.” From the far end of the aisle she could hear Robert St. John’s voice, cordially greeting a lady. Their voices drew nearer. I’m well disguised. He has never seen my face. Yet her heart hammered almost as hard as it had the night past when Gabrielle instructed him, naked in her bed. In an attempt to blot out that unsettling image, Amber seized a box of tea and perused its wooden stamp as if examining a Faberge egg.
Jenette kept her hand on her pistol inside the reticule, listening to the man’s voice. Where had she heard it before? But of course, the handsome earl whose impassioned speech had so moved Amber! As he turned the corner of the aisle with the lady, Jenette read the tension in her friend’s body. Not wanting to appear as if she were gaping, the Frenchwoman also picked up a tin and examined it, but could not resist saying, “He does cut a dashing figure in those tightly fitted breeches and the kerseymere tailcoat. I wonder how well he rides.”
Her suggestive tone was not lost on Amber. “I am quite certain I would not know,” she said, unable to take her eyes off the way his broad shoulders and long legs flattered the tailor’s art. He moved down the aisle with pantherish grace, attending the slender blonde who was speaking.
“Mr. Berry blends my teas to precise instruction,” his companion said in a soft, whispery voice. “Oh, Elgin, do be careful!” A little boy no more than two years of age leaned away from the nursemaid carrying him. One chubby fist swiped at a stack of small tins, knocking them to the floor. “Phoebe, you were to watch that he did not touch anything!” she scolded the servant. “Now look what has happened. I feel a complete cake,” she said, looking at the earl as several clerks came scurrying.
“′Tis natural for a child to possess curiosity, Lady Oberly, and you are not a cake,” he replied, grinning at the child whose face clouded when he was restrained by the young nursemaid struggling to hold him.
“I try not to indulge him too much,” she said over Elgin’s wail. “But we do love outings such as this…until some, er, difficulty occurs. I suppose you will tell me ′tis natural for disasters to follow all little boys.” The lady gave the earl a mischievous smile.
Watching the exchange set Amber’s teeth on edge. They were flirting! This was the woman he intended to court when her mourning period was finished. Paying no notice to the two women at the opposite end of the aisle, the earl raised his hands, palms up, and replied, “I grew up with two older cousins. We created disasters that would put this small, er, difficulty in the shade.”
When Elgin continued to cry, his mother instructed the maid to take him to their carriage. The clerks made swift work of restacking the merchandise as Jenette whispered to Amber, “That is the one who writes menus while the earl speaks.”
“Now we know for whom she composes them,” Amber replied more tartly than she intended.
“Perhaps we should leave,” Jenette suggested, but Amber shook her head. Some perverse instinct held her rooted to the floor, eavesdropping as the handsome couple continued chatting.
“It was so fortunate that I chanced to meet you here, Lord Barrington. I would have your opinion on a new blend of tea that I shall introduce at my dinner party on Friday next.”
“You are out of mourning now?” he inquired as they strolled past Amber and Jenette.
“Yes. I do miss the baron, but he has been gone for a year. ′Tis time that I rejoin society. Please say you will favor me by attending,” she cajoled.
“I should be delighted. Now, where is this marvelous new tea blend?”
As they disappeared around the next aisle, Jenette asked dryly, “Why do I disbelieve she chanced to meet him here? She has set out to have him. Quel dommage! She might succeed.” The Frenchwoman observed Amber’s reaction.
“She is of his class, beautiful, and has proven herself capable of bearing the earl an heir,” Amber replied, trying to keep her tone neutral.
“There is nothing such as a babe in arms to win a man’s heart—providing, of course, that the arms belong to a servant,” Jenette said scornfully.
“′Tis the English custom to use nursemaids. At least she brought the child with her.”
“The better to appeal to your earl.”
“He is not my earl. I wish you would leave off saying that,” Amber snapped, still clutching the tea in her hand.
“Take care you do not get the splinter through your gloves,” Jenette said with a knowing smirk. “You have, perhaps, a small tendresse for this earl, oui?” Her shrewd gaze bored in on her friend’s averted eyes.
“Do not be ridiculous. I merely applaud his concern for children.” Although she had never before kept a secret from Jenette, Amber had not told her he was a patron. It was too painfully…personal. If not for Grace, Amber never would have gathered the courage to become involved.
Ignoring Jenette’s gibe, she placed the small wooden box on the shelf and stalked ahead. So, that vacuous blonde was the woman he intended to court…the woman he wanted to please in bed once he had made her his countess.
“I do not like her,” Jenette said, as if reading Amber’s mind.
“I do not like her, either,” Amber admitted, vowing to have Lady Oberly investigated.
The young clerk gave them her name—Verity Chivins, Baroness Oberly. Before the earl visited Gabrielle that night, Amber wanted to speak with him, perhaps learn what he knew—or thought he knew—about his baroness. “You will be late for your appointment with Madame Velange if we do not hurry,” she said to Jenette.
“There is ample time,” the Frenchwoman replied, sauntering down the aisle, selecting special treats and tossing them into the basket the clerk held.
Amber gritted her teeth. The earl had been dressed for riding and it had just begun to rain when they approached the grocery. She had an idea, but it would only work if she could leave Jenette at the modiste for her fitting and then have her driver head toward Portman Square. “If we do not hurry we shall be soaked before we reach the carriage. ′Tis starting to rain much harder,” she said, looking out the bow window at the front of the building.
With a careless shrug, Jenette capitulated. “As you wish, ma coeur.”
When Amber paid for her purchases, she was delighted to see the baroness still had Barrington dancing attendance on her at the tea blending table. He paid no heed to her or Jenette. It was not unusual for men to ignore a woman veiled and dressed in black, but Jenette’s beauty usually turned heads. The earl appeared well smitten with Baroness Oberly.
Once Jenette had been handed down and entered the French modiste’s shop, Amber instructed Boxer to return to St. James Street instead of heading directly home. Knowing the direction of Barrington’s city house, she intended to find him as “accidentally” as had the baroness. What could be more natural than to offer a ride in a closed carriage when it was raining?
If he accepts, then what shall you do? She knew she was playing with fire. This was unwise, but something compelled her to speak with him away from the place where he would meet Gabrielle tonight. Perhaps she would not run across him on London’s busy streets. What if he had not gone directly home but to his men’s club, or tailor, or…wherever? Just when she was about to tap on the roof and instruct the driver to return home, she saw him mounted on a splendid black stallion.
The earl stood out in the crowd, guiding his horse through the throng sloshing along Oxford. While others hunched down in the rain, scurrying hither and yon to escape, he rode as if the skies were not pouring cold spring showers. She leaned out the carriage window just enough to call out to him.
Rob recognized the crisp, cultured voice calling his name over the seething babble of street vendors and cursing draymen. Lady Fantasia? Then he saw the veiled woman in the expensive, unmarked black coach. Of course, if she hid her identity on her own property, she would do so in public. He cut across the press of soaked pedestrians, rigs, and riders.
“Might I offer you a ride in this beastly weather, m’lord?�
�� she inquired.
Had he seen her somewhere today? The severe bonnet with its heavy veil looked vaguely familiar. As if she had cued it, the rain turned into a downpour. “That would be most kind, if you are certain it is no inconvenience.”
“I would not have stopped if it were, m’lord. Please tie your reins to my carriage and come in out of this deluge,” she instructed.
Looking about the busy street, Rob did as he was bid and climbed in the open door. The coach’s interior was commodious, upholstered in deep black velvet. In the dim light, the black-clad woman seemed to blend into the squabs. “Still careful to conceal your identity, I see,” he said as he took a seat across from her. “Might I ask why?”
“You may ask, but I will not answer,” she replied.
“Was there perchance a Lord Fantasia whom you mourn?” he asked.
“I do not mourn,” she replied sharply, then settled back and tried to focus. Sitting so close to him in confined quarters during daylight was insanely dangerous. She took a steadying breath.
“The first time we met, ’twas I who was nervous. Now it would appear our roles have reversed.” He smiled ruefully, recalling his awkward interview with the mysterious madam four days past. Had one night with Gabrielle given him this new confidence…or was it Lady Fantasia’s shift in demeanor? She is vulnerable. The thought surprised him.
She watched as he brushed glistening droplets of water from his dark hair and jacket. His presence seemed to fill the space. The aroma of damp wool blended subtly with a faint hint of horse and the male essence of him. She rearranged her skirt, tucking her slippers beneath the hem to avoid touching his Hessians. His long legs stretched across the space between them.
When he felt the carriage start moving into the traffic, he said, “You may tell your driver—”
“He knows your direction.” At his raised eyebrow, she replied, “Recall your first visit when I told you all patrons are discreetly investigated.”
“So you know my city house is not overly far from your establishment. What else might you know?” He peered at her veiled face, wondering again if it matched her splendid figure. The urge to reach across the coach and lift the veil on her bonnet was almost irresistible. The older man sitting next to her driver would probably shoot him. Both fellows had a military bearing about them.
“Would it surprise you to learn that upon occasion I attend parliamentary speeches?”
“I suspect there are many things about you that would surprise me,” he replied honestly. “Did you hear me speak?”
“I was in the gallery when you described the abominable exploitation of children this past week. You were most impressive.”
“I thank you for your kind words, but my oratorical abilities, such as they are, have had little effect.” He had been correct. She had surprised him once more. This topic was the last one he could have imagined.
“Do not look so amazed. Even a ‘frail flower’ requires diversion, and since there were no cock fights or bear baitings scheduled for that day, I decided a session of Lords would serve almost as well. I’ve often found it difficult to discern much difference between political debate among the Peers of the Realm and the crowing and roaring of bestial combat.”
Rob blinked, then threw back his head and laughed. “I detect a cat-in-cream tone in your voice. You tease my earnest efforts.”
“Hardly. I quite agree with Mr. Hazlett regarding your skill. However, the majority of your colleagues must have taken Mr. Swift’s satiric reference to infant cannibalism in his Modest Proposal quite literally. Abusing children is not the natural order of things, nor should it ever be.”
“Have a care now. You sound like a bluestocking holding forth in her salon,” he replied, amusement in his voice.
“As an adherent of Mrs. More and Mr. Wilberforce, you would have no use for intellectual salons, would you? Too much sinful vanity in such places.”
“I support Mr. Wilberforce on abolition. But he is blind to barbarity here at home and I have often taken him to task over the issue.”
“And Mrs. More?” she asked.
He pulled a face. “She believes the poor should be rewarded in the next world, not this one. I am not persuaded that starvation is a prerequisite for heaven.”
“Then you attend other than reform gatherings?”
He shrugged. “Where ideas are freely exchanged…and political alliances are forged, I have been known to lurk, yes. Even to lift a toast or two when the occasion warrants.”
His smile lit up the dim interior of the coach. How charming he was now. She compared him to the nervous, angry man who had come to her four nights ago. “Might I offer you some cognac, then?” she asked, opening a hidden compartment beneath the armrest to reveal a small crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and a set of glasses. “After being soaked in the rain, you might catch a chill. It would be an unconscionable waste to lose a reasonably enlightened man. The nation has too few of them.”
Rob laughed. “You are a most gracious hostess, Lady Fantasia. Since I, too, would dislike thinning the ranks of ‘reasonable enlightened men,’ I’ll be delighted to share a cognac with you.”
She poured a small amount in a glass, amazed that her hands remained steady, but when she reached out to give it to him, her gloved fingers touched his warm flesh and she nearly dropped the drink. He had removed his wet gloves and she could see those marvelous hands, remember how they…No! She quashed the erotic image. Those feelings belonged to Gabrielle, not Lady Fantasia.
As she poured herself a glass, he said, “I would not have imagined your interest in politics.”
“I, too, have been known to lurk,” she replied dryly, feeling the burn of fine liquor steady her nerves. “Indeed, even to skulk.”
He raised his glass at her bon mot and took a sip with a chuckle.
“Are you a Whig or a Tory, m’lord?” she asked.
“Agreeing with neither on the whole, I hold no party affiliation,” he replied.
“Then you belong to both Whites and Brooks?”
Rob smiled. “Also Boodles.”
“Because the food is far superior?”
He nodded. “I did possess vices before I arrived at your door,” he said. It was suddenly easy to admit such a thing to her. “I am obviously no saint, plaster or otherwise, Lady Fantasia. What of you, hmm?” he could not resist asking. Would she answer?
The turnaround question took her off guard for a moment. “Mrs. More would not approve, but my mentor and I have rescued a few women from the same abuses you so stirringly describe in Lords. None who have chosen to remain under my roof have been forced to do anything against their will. My guards and footmen are, almost to a man, former soldiers, turned out by our Regent’s government when the war was won.”
“You’ve done well to offer them work. Neither Prinny nor our great hero Wellington have even offered them gratitude.”
“One cannot eat gratitude,” she replied tartly. “Have you ever given shelter or employment to anyone in need?”
“From time to time. I find it difficult to turn away from a crippled child begging on a street corner. My cousin runs a school for them at my seat in Kent.”
Amber blinked. “My, you are filled with surprises, m’lord. Noblesse oblige?”
He gave a bitter scoff. “Haven’t you heard? Noblesse oblige has been guillotined.”
“Regrettably, the revolution in France has had a dampening effect on our country…but I believe there is always hope. You must, too, else you would not labor as you do in Parliament.”
“Are you, like Gabrielle, of the nobility?” The question popped out before he could reconsider asking.
“If ever I was, ′tis long past.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. He was too perceptive for comfort. She must tread very carefully.
“Were you ‘rescued’ by that mentor you mentioned earlier?”
“Suffice it to say, Grace Winston is the mother I never had in childhood.” It was madn
ess to bandy words with such a clever man. She was relieved when the carriage pulled up in front of his city house, an elegant redbrick structure. “We are here, m’lord. I bid you good afternoon. Gabrielle will await you at midnight.”
Rob was about to thank her for the gracious rescue when her words jarred him. How could he have forgotten Gabrielle? Memories of her passionate kisses and soft little moans of pleasure flooded his mind and body. He had been wild with frustration when she had halted their passion last night. How extraordinary that a mere conversation with the English madam had so distracted him!
“I greatly appreciate the ride and the cognac. You are most kind,” he said as he stepped down and untied the reins of his horse from the rear of the carriage. Sketching a bow to the lady in shadows, he bid her good afternoon.
As the carriage pulled away, he thought of the lady in shadows and the lady in darkness…to whom he would go tonight.
But neither of them was any longer a lady, he thought sadly. Somehow he knew that they were blameless in the loss of their virtue. Sighing, he climbed the steps and entered the foyer of his lonely house.
Ever efficient, Clyde Dyer reported back to Amber early that evening. The earl’s baroness was indeed a widow. Her husband, Charles, had died the past year of a lung inflammation, leaving her alone with a baby and a family whose fortunes were in decided decline. Was she a fortune hunter who would break the earl’s heart?
“That is no concern of mine,” she muttered savagely as she crumpled the report and threw it onto her escritoire. But she was concerned. Very much. Dare she caution him about the baroness? No, she dismissed that insane idea the instant it popped into her mind. A bordello madam presuming to warn a peer about avaricious women! He would stalk out of the place and never return.
Amber felt as tense as a drawn bowstring. What could she do? Looking at the ormolu clock on the mantel, she saw that it would soon be midnight.
And she would become another woman.
He entered the chamber with more assurance than he had felt the night before. Undressing eagerly, he doused the light and stretched out on the large bed. As he lay alone in the dark, all thoughts of the English madam vanished like the wisps of smoke from the candle.