Temporary Mistress

by Susan Johnson

  Joe looked to Molly for guidance, and Isabella felt as though the world were collapsing around her.

  “Joe heard a rumor that Dermott is wounded,” Molly reluctantly offered, trying to speak with calm. “Don’t immediately jump to conclusions. All gossip isn’t true; most gossip isn’t true, as you well know.”

  “But you’re ashen and Joe is afraid to talk to me, so please don’t tell me everything is all right when it clearly isn’t.” Isabella stood trembling with fear, her hands clenched at her sides to still the tremors, her gaze swiveling from one to the other as though she might be able to decipher their thoughts. “I want to know where he is,” she whispered, her voice tight with horror. “And don’t tell me you don’t know.”

  “He was at Lamb’s Inn,” Molly replied.

  “Was?”

  “Lord Devon drove back to the inn with Dermott’s lawyers, and he was gone. Against his doctor’s orders, the inn owner said.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Apparently no one knows, or if they do, they’re not talking. That’s all we’ve been able to find out.”

  “Is that the whole truth?” Isabella searched the faces of her companions, looking for any indications of subterfuge. “I’m not a child,” she reminded them. “I’m aware of what Dermott wants and doesn’t want. You’re not going to break my heart any more than it’s already broken if you’re honest with me. I fully realize he doesn’t want to be with me, that he doesn’t love me. But I’d like to know how badly he’s hurt. For God’s sake, tell me. I need to know.”

  “They don’t expect him to live,” Molly whispered.

  Isabella sank to the floor, her legs suddenly gone weak. “Oh, my God …” Looking up at Molly, tears streamed down her cheeks. “It’s all my fault….”

  “Don’t even think that, darling.” Rushing to comfort her, Molly dropped to the floor and took Isabella in her arms. “It’s not your fault,” she soothed. “Don’t for a minute blame yourself. Everyone knows Dermott and Lonsdale have long been enemies, since their public school days at least. And Dermott pleases no one but himself. Tell her, Joe, she mustn’t take responsibility for this.”

  “He’s met more than one man on the dueling field, Miss Isabella. This weren’t the first time by a long shot.”

  “You see,” Molly insisted. “You’re as guiltless now as with any of the others.”

  “I won’t even be able to see him before—” Convulsed with a sob, Isabella couldn’t conceive of so strong and vital a man facing the awful finality of death. Perhaps he was already dead…. Whimpering, she clung to Molly, terrified of so fearful a thought.

  “Come, darling,” Molly cajoled. “Come sit and have a glass of wine to ease your nerves. We’ll see if we can find out more.” Rising, she tugged on Isabella’s hands.

  Numb with grief, Isabella allowed herself to be helped to her feet and led to a chair, where Molly wiped the tears from her face. When she was handed a glass shortly after, she drank the wine, though it was tasteless in her mouth. Like dust.

  She answered when spoken to, but she neither heard nor cared what was being discussed. All she could see was Dermott’s cold body laid out in death. All she could think about was how sad and dreadful and devastating beyond belief the waste of his life.

  And she couldn’t go to him because she didn’t know where he was.

  Because he didn’t want her to know.

  “I can’t stay here,” Isabella abruptly declared, interrupting the murmured conversation, feeling a desperate, inexplicable need to flee. “I’m going to the country.”

  Molly looked at Joe and then at Isabella. “I’m glad.”

  Isabella came to her feet, her spine rigid, her shoulders stiff as a soldier on parade, shield against the collapse of her soul. “I’m going right now.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather—” Molly’s words died away at the look of anguish on Isabella’s face. “I’ll have the maids pack your clothes.”

  “Don’t,” she brusquely retorted, a kind of defensive anger in her voice. “I’m not taking anything.” She didn’t want to be reminded of Dermott, how he’d looked the day she’d been trying on the black lace gown at Molly’s, or the way he’d stripped the white dress from her at Bathurst House and made her love him, or the scent of his hair and cologne that still lingered in the silk of her clothes. “Joe, please call for my carriage.” Her voice was sharp and crisp. If she could pretend she’d never known Dermott, if she could obliterate any memory of the last unbelievable weeks, if she could physically separate herself from the people and places that reminded her of his beauty and tenderness, his playfulness and essential goodness, maybe with time she could learn to bear the unbearable pain.

  Or if she couldn’t, at least she could hide her misery from the world.

  Dermott, traveling south, was undergoing his own unbearable torment, each revolution of the wheels an agonizing shock to his ravaged body, each bump in the road racking torture. Despite the doctor’s protests, despite Shelby’s pleadings, despite the horror in Charles’s eyes, he’d insisted on leaving once he’d regained consciousness. He’d wanted to find a solitary cave where he could lick his wounds, a hermitage and refuge away from the world, away from prying eyes and gossip, away from help he didn’t want and decisions he couldn’t make. And if he were to die—he’d heard the doctor through the shifting levels of his consciousness—he’d take that final journey alone.

  He didn’t wish his mother alarmed. She was to be told only that he was recuperating at the seashore.

  And so he meant to. His spirit willing.

  He was unconscious more than he was conscious on the road to the south coast. A blessing, the doctor declared, seeing that Dermott swallowed another dose of laudanum each time he woke. And on that painful journey to the Isle of Wight, when those with him never knew if his next breath might be his last, Dermott’s opium dreams were peopled with familiar images of his wife and son, the sweet visions bringing a smile to his lips. But another face intruded in the habitual, well-known fantasies—a beauty with golden hair and gentian eyes and the strength to draw him away. Sometimes he fought against her lure, and other times he willingly followed her. But their path always took them to the very edge of a high, rocky precipice shrouded in fog, and he found himself unwilling to follow her when she took that last fatal step. Invariably, he’d wake with a start, only to be met with a more brutal kind of pain, a clawing, fiendish pain that mercilessly ripped through his body and brought him panting, begging for oblivion.

  The same evening Isabella was on her way to Suffolk, her uncle’s family was dining at home, gloating over the events of the day.

  “Herbert, tell us again when you first heard of Bathurst’s mortal wounds,” his wife cheerfully said, glancing at her two beaming daughters.

  “And tell us, Papa, when we may attend the more refined society entertainments now that Bathurst is no longer your nemesis.”

  Their father cast them a lowering look. “He’s not dead yet.”

  “But he’s as near dead as ever may be, Papa!” Caroline exclaimed with considerable glee. “I heard it from Harold’s valet, who heard it from any number of his friends. It’s quite certain.”

  “So he can’t hurt you now, Papa,” Amelia declared. “It’s so exciting! Just think, we can mix with the very best of the ton now.”

  “Don’t set your sights too high, my dear,” her doting papa remarked, more sensible than the females in his family of their station in life.

  “But, Papa, you’re ever so rich and you know that means we’ll have our pick of a number of eligible parties. Now that we aren’t obliged to go to those dreadful routs in the City.”

  “And have to talk to mushrooms without titles.”

  “Abigail,” he sternly noted, “I suggest you set your daughters on a more realistic path. The world of the ton doesn’t offer many titles to bankers’ daughters.”

  “Oh, pooh on you, Papa. Just think of Evelina Drucker, who married a viscount onl
y last year.”

  “A very poor and old viscount.”

  “Well, who would give a fig how old or poor they might be if one could wear a coronet,” Caroline maintained.

  “And you know the aristocracy never even talk to each other,” her sister chimed in. “They live in separate parts of their great mansions and see one another only at ceremonies.”

  “So you girls know it all.”

  “Enough, Papa, to know that the only thing that matters is your money. And now that Bathurst is almost dead, we will be allowed to dance at the very best balls.”

  “Isabella is gone as well, Herbert. You said it yourself. Your watchers told you. So surely there are no further impediments to our daughters’ season.”

  “Where did she go?” Harold had just come down from his chambers, his dandified attire having taken considerable time to adjust on his porcine body.

  “You’ve missed the first course, Harold,” his mother admonished him.

  “Save your reproach for Steeves,” he protested, sitting down across from his sisters. “He ruined a dozen of my neckcloths before managing to make me presentable. So where did she go?”

  “To Tavora House. Are you going to woo her now that Bathurst is dead?” Amelia teased, knowing of her brother’s tendre for their cousin.

  “She’s not worth my time now that she’s used goods,” he said in an affected manner, Isabella’s relationship with Bathurst the stuff of gossip. “But I may pay a visit on her—and give her the benefit of my advice.”

  “Used goods, indeed,” Abigal sniffed. “She was out and out Bathurst’s whore.”

  “But Lady Jersey slept with the Prince of Wales for years and now Lady Hertford does and the Duke of Devonshire has a mistress living in his house along with his wife and any number of nobles do—”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Abigail exclaimed, directing a blistering glance at her younger daughter. “How in the world would you know such scandal?”

  “From Maude, of course. You know how informed she is, Mama, and that’s the reason you keep her. And if I’m going to be married soon, I should understand how the world goes along.”

  “Herbert! I would wish you to inform our daughters that immorality is wrong regardless of rank.”

  It took a moment for Herbert Leslie to gather the proper severe expression when he knew very well how the beau monde conducted itself. Fornication and flirtation had long been the amusements of the leisured class. “Listen to your mama, girls. She knows best.”

  “A little more sincerity, if you please, Herbert.”

  “Cut bait, Abigail,” he brusquely retorted. “As if you don’t know how the ton play at life and the world be damned.”

  The girls snickered and Harold smiled, but none dared confront their mother openly. She managed the household with an iron fist, and even Herbert rarely interfered in his wife’s domain.

  “We’ll have no more talk of disreputable people at this table.” Abigail scanned the faces of her family with a penetrating gaze. “Now then,” she said in her most proper tone, “what if we all attended Mrs. Bambridge’s tea tomorrow—as a family.”

  “I have to work, as you well know, Abigail.”

  “And I’m bound for the races, Mama.”

  Abigail frowned at her husband and son. “It wouldn’t hurt you to show yourselves at some of the girls’ parties.”

  “Not old lady Bambridge’s tea though, Mama. There’s no one of consequence there.”

  “Mrs. Bambridge has hired an opera singer. And she has hopes that Baroness Tellmache may appear, for she likes Madame Dolcini’s voice above all things.”

  “Mama, don’t bother. Harold would lief walk to his races before he’d listen to an opera singer. And Lucinda and Emilie will be there, which is quite enough for us to have fun.”

  “Lucinda’s maid knows the dresser for Lady Jersey, so she always has the most divine gossip about the royal family,” Amelia added, grinning at her sister.

  “There you go, Abby, the girls will have a great good time without us men to bother with. And as a little compensation for my busy schedule at the bank, why don’t you girls go shopping for new gowns and bonnets.”

  “Oh, Papa!” his daughters both squealed, indifferent to their father’s company but charmed by his purse.

  “You’re the greatest papa in the world!” Amelia cried. “I know exactly what I want. Remember, Mama, that darling primrose gown that you wouldn’t let me buy because it was too dear. Is that all right now, Papa?” she cajoled.

  “Of course, poppet.” For all Herbert’s grasp on reality, he had hopes that his girls would make good matches—maybe even titled gentlemen if ones could be found who were necessitous enough. “Abby, you see that our daughters look up to snuff, now.” He winked. “And I’ll see that the bills are paid.”

  The rest of the dinner conversation was taken over by a discussion of various gowns and milliners, while the men enjoyed their roasts and wine without further interruptions. And once the women had gone from the table and father and son were left to their port, Herbert said, “I’d like a word with you about your cousin.”

  “I thought I might call on her after the races. Tavora House is only a few miles from Newmarket.”

  “I’ve sent some men to follow her there. With Lonsdale out of the picture, and very luckily, since Bathurst is near dead, I thought you might like to consider marrying Isabella.”

  “Mother won’t allow it. Her reputation after Bathurst—” He shrugged at the impossibility.

  “Just leave your mother to me. We’re talking eighty thousand a year, my boy. I’ll see that she understands one way or another. Isabella could be kept in the country until the season is over, I was thinking. No one need know you’re married.”

  “I might consider it, then.”

  “Don’t put on airs with me, son. I know how you feel about Isabella. And now with the threat of Bathurst over, we can return to our original plans. The money should be kept in the family anyway, by Jove,” he gruffly noted. “And if George hadn’t had his head turned by your cousin’s sweet ways, he would have done the right thing. Call on her, by all means, when you go to Newmarket.”

  “Is her bodyguard still in place?”

  Herbert lifted his brows. “There’s two of ’em now. But you needn’t make more than a social call. See how she seems. Whether she’s friendlier. Reconnoiter, as it were.”

  “Until such a time as we find a means to carry her off?”

  His father nodded. “Exactly.”

  “If Bathurst kept her,” Harold slyly murmured, “she’s bound to be well trained.”

  “And capable of giving you a go for it in bed, eh, my boy?” his father replied with a soft chuckle. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “A man wouldn’t dare give her much freedom—if she’s such a hot little piece.”

  “No need to give her freedom, son. She’ll be your wife. You can keep her locked away in the country or in the mews behind the house if you like. And if I didn’t trust your mama’s sterling reputation, I’d do the same.” It was bluster, of course. Abigail would have his hide if he dared cross her. Or her brothers would, and they were more powerful and influential bankers than he. “Fortunately, Isabella is without family to come to her aid,” Herbert said in a musing tone. “We can be grateful for that.”

  “Lonsdale proved very convenient, didn’t he—killing Bathurst like he did.”

  “And he had the decency to die as well,” Herbert observed, lifting his glass to his son with a smile. “To the noble art of dueling.”

  Harold raised his glass. “May they both rest in peace.”

  “Not likely with Lonsdale—or Bathurst, for that matter. Hell’s likely waiting. Now, just a word to the wise on the issue of honor. Such sublime principles may be well and good for the aristocracy, but don’t let me ever hear of you involved in anything so dangerous. We can hire men to fight our battles, as anyone with half a brain does.”

  “Don’t worry,
Papa. I know better than to risk my life.”

  “You’re a sensible young man.” He smiled. “As my son should be. I never brought you up to foolishly spill your blood on the dueling field.”

  “I prefer the pleasures of life, Papa. Like this very good port.” He held the rich ruby liquor up to the light.

  “Shipped in from the Douro despite that damnable Peninsular War that’s bleeding England dry. If they’d let the bankers run this country, we wouldn’t be fighting to keep some damned king on his throne. Making money for England and ourselves. That’s what counts.”

  “And I’ll do my best to bring Uncle George’s money back into the family,” Harold said with a grin.

  “Hear, hear.” Herbert saluted his son, and lifting his glass to his mouth, drained it in one gulp.

  19

  FOR THE FIRST FEW DAYS at Dermott’s manor house on the island, his survival remained questionable. Dr. Mc-Tavert kept the earl heavily sedated to alleviate as much of his suffering as possible, but despite the powerful narcotics, Dermott was still in agony. He tossed and turned, trying to escape the pain, his agitated movements causing his wounds to break open, the renewed bleeding further weakening him. The doctor tried having him tied down, but the restraints only worsened his restlessness, so the small staff kept at the house were pressed into service, everyone taking turns holding the earl as still as possible.

  Dermott had hardly eaten anything since the duel, and the amount of liquid he’d drunk was so limited, the doctor was becoming fearful of dehydration. The earl’s weight was dropping precipitously. In order to keep him from wasting away, the doctor ordered he be fed at least a few spoonfuls of broth every half hour. But the procedure was laborious and not always successful. Despite Dermott’s weakened condition, he was still a strong man, and even sedated, occasionally he’d strike out at the annoyance and the soup and spoon would go flying.

  One afternoon, in a rare moment of rest, Shelby and the doctor stood on the terrace, breathing in the fresh sea air.