The biggest difference, of course, between society’s assemblies and this one, was that a young lady went to Almack’s to find a match. Men came here to avoid one, or ignore the ones they already had. Marriage was a word never spoken among the demi-monde. That was as hard and fast a rule as any that held sway at King Street.
Simone almost wished she hadn’t come. Then she wished she hadn’t been so adamant about refusing jewels. The firework displays of gemstones on bare skin looked garish and cheap to her, but she might have felt more comfortable among the women if she were better armored. Still, Harry’s hand at her waist, a gesture which was altogether too familiar for polite society, was reassuring. If nothing else, a quick glance told Simone that she had the handsomest escort in the room. Too bad there was no prize for that.
Lord Gorham welcomed them effusively. Harry whispered that the marquis wished to curry favor with Lord Royce, but the tickle of his voice in her ear, the ruffle of her hair as he leaned down, the scent of his spice cologne and soap, all drew her attention to him, not the florid host.
Lord Gorham’s mistress welcomed them as if she were the lady of the fine old house. She not so subtly kicked her lord in the ankle when he held Simone’s hand too long. Claire Hope was as beautiful as her reputation claimed, with a deep, opera diva’s bust that could have doubled as a sheet music rest.
The marquis seemed to be admiring Simone’s lesser endowments, for his eyes never reached hers. “I can see where the betting is going to get interesting, my love,” his lordship said to his mistress when she kicked him again. He quickly added, “Not that I have any doubts about your winning.”
Simone could not understand why the marquis was discarding his beautiful, long-time lover, for the pair acted like an old married couple. Then she remembered that the aristocrat was already married. Perhaps it was Claire who was leaving, with hopes of a more permanent relationship with a different gentleman. She was certainly smiling at Harry with the eyes of a predator. Simone stepped closer to him.
Claire led them around to make introductions like a proper hostess. Simone smiled to the women, curtsied to the men, and wished she had her notebooks to consult. She was never going to put names to so many faces. They were nearly twenty couples, with a few of them taking rooms at the nearby inn rather than at the crowded manor, according to Claire. The men welcomed Harry warmly, the women more warmly. Simone kept her hand on his arm; he placed his other hand over hers. Either he understood or he did not like the way the men were ogling her, almost licking their lips.
Simone did not like to be so scrutinized, not after facing that same hungry look from her former employers. So she was pleased when Claire invited the women into a drawing room done in Egyptian style while the gentlemen discussed the coming competition in Lord Gorham’s library. She ought to have been less eager to leave Harry’s protection.
The ugly crocodile-footed furniture was more friendly than the inquisition she faced.
How long had she known Harry, how did they meet, and where was she from? Oh, dear. She and Harry had never discussed details, not that Simone ever intended to tell the truth; she’d join the mummy in the sarcophagus first—so she did not know what Banbury tales he’d concocted for the gentlemen. She gave a vague answer, “Oh, I have been here and there, and met Harry on one of my travels,” which satisfied no one.
Why didn’t she have any jewelry if Harry Harmon was supposed to be so generous?
Simone wanted to hiss at the cat who’d made that observation, the dark-haired woman with a ruby as large as a roof tile hanging at her neck. Maybe it was paste.
“Oh, my Harry is generous with other…gifts.”
The ruby-wearer gave an affected titter. “Is he as good a lover as they say, then?”
Simone sipped at the tea Claire offered, rather than tossing it at the rude woman. The tea might be good quality, and the china cups as delicate as any in the best houses, but this was not polite company, no matter how they pretended to act like ladies. Simone would not stoop to their level. She batted her darkened eyelashes and smiled coyly. “Do I look dissatisfied? More than that, a lady never tells.”
Her reply earned a shout of laughter.
“I do.”
“Me, too.”
“What do you want to know about Anthony?”
Claire offered more tea, then wine, then said, “We have to look out for each other, don’t we?”
Not when it came to the contest, it seemed. No one was going to compete against Claire at singing, so they thought she ought to withdraw and be a judge. Professional that she was, she refused not to perform. After that, the women started to make side bets among themselves. Could Noma dance? Did she play billiards? What about cards?
She smiled and repeated her words: “A lady never tells.” Neither did a gambler show her hand.
Soon the women dispersed to dress for dinner, to Simone’s relief.
“Country hours, you know,” Claire announced, disdaining the manor’s staff for not being up to London standards. At least they’d have a late night supper after the evening’s entertainment.
*
The men’s conversation was not much different. Everyone wanted to know where Harry’d found such a diamond.
“A mutual friend introduced us,” he answered, which was not a lie. Then they asked how long he’d had Miss Royale in keeping, and why was he hiding her away from their eager eyes, when any number of them might have made her a better offer.
They all laughed when he said, “You answered your own question. Why should I parade my doe-eyed lass in front of a herd of stags in rut? And I haven’t had her under my protection nearly long enough,” which was a definite warning to all of them to keep their distance.
“I don’t know, Harmon,” a wealthy banker who did not know Harry’s reputation with a sword or a pistol said. “Maybe the gal would prefer a nabob who can keep her in diamonds?”
“I believe Miss Royale prefers sapphires.”
The banker stepped outside the library door to the gardens with his cigar. If Harry’s tone of voice hadn’t convinced him to make himself scarce, Lord Gorham’s whispered caution did.
A knight too deep in his cups to know he was drowning asked, “Is the wench as good a lover as she looks? You know what they always say about redheads: hot temper, hot blood.”
If Harry had a sword in his hand, the knight would be a head shorter. He thought of reaching for the knife in his boot, or the small pistol in the back of his waist. He could not ruin the party so soon, though. Instead he fixed his black-rimmed gaze on the hapless drunk and calmly, deliberately, said, “A gentleman never asks. A gentleman never tells.” Then he looked away, effectively changing the subject. “Who wants to place a bet?”
A few of the men thought of withdrawing their paramours’ names from the contest, knowing their ladybirds could never fly so high as Harry Harmon’s newest dove, but they laid their stakes on the table anyway. Gorham marked down the entries with a sympathetic laugh, knowing there’d be hell to pay if any of the females got wind of the traitorous thoughts.
He stopped laughing when they discussed the various choices for competition, and he was forced to make some changes in his plans. The men wanted independent judges and more inclusive events, sabotaging Claire’s sure win of the singing match. Lord Gorham was not happy, particularly not with Harry, who refused to have a best lover category.
“Let us maintain our dignity, gentlemen,” he said, well aware that he was a bastard in the midst of wellborn, titled, wealthy men, and they all knew it. “And remember the courtesy owed a lady. Let us simply assume that each of our partners is well versed in pleasing a man. There is no objective way of awarding grades.”
Captain Entwhistle, late of his majesty’s navy, said, “I’d say by your smile, Harmon, that there is a way. Cat in the cream pot, if you asked me.”
Harry laughed. “Noma is a far more delectable than the sweetest cream, but I will still not wager on bed play.”
&nbs
p; The captain knew when he was defeated. “What kind of name is Noma anyway? I’ve not heard its like.”
“It is an interesting one, isn’t it? Part foreign, I believe, and part Gypsy.” He was glad to be telling the truth, which suited his purposes of making Simone sound like anything but an English governess.
“Gypsy, you say? Damn, trust you to find a diamond in the dust heap. You are a lucky man.”
“I am, at that.” Which was also true.
*
Upstairs, Simone met Harry’s valet, a small man bustling about between the large bedroom and the adjoining dressing rooms. Metlock was a former actor, Sarah informed her as she laid out Simone’s clothes, to see if any needed pressing. He was a dab hand at costumes and wigs and make up.
Simone glared at the older man. She’d bet he was. Then she frowned at Sarah. “You could have told me.”
The maid laughed and held up the gown she’d chosen for the first dinner here. “I did tell you there’d be a fine surprise.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“And right proud I am to be considered a friend to a real lady like yourself, Miss Royale, but Master Harry, he does pay our wages. Not Mum nor Jem nor me could be disloyal, now could we, not after what he’s done for us? Asides, we knew you’d be happier this way. What female wouldn’t be?”
Sarah was not the one to blame, so Simone had to forgive her. Especially when the maid showed off the bathing room across the hall, with running hot water from cisterns and heaters on the roof.
“Master Harry says the marquis wants some land Lord Royce owns near his family seat. He’s hoping Master Harry will convince the earl to sell, or Harry will iffen he inherits the property on account of it not being entailed. That’s why you have such fine accommodations, almost as good as the duke’s second son what brought the Indian woman who used to be a slave. You didn’t meet her, on account of she took sick on the carriage ride. Metlock heard she wears pantaloons, like a man.”
“Did you meet any of the other maids yet?”
“Hoity-toity, some of them, if you ask me. As if their mistresses aren’t mistresses. And some of them are no better than they ought to be themselves. Why, the servants’ hall is more like a hiring fair for dollymops.”
“Heavens, you must not let any of the footmen or valets lead you astray, no matter what they promise. That would be disastrous, and sinful. You are too young, and not meant for—” For the life that Simone was supposedly leading. Now she’d have young Sally’s morals to worry about, too. “That is, your mother would be upset to have you exposed to such debauchery. Perhaps you should sleep here, on a cot in the dressing room. Yes, that would be better.” For everyone.
“Gracious, no, Miss Noma. You and Master Harry won’t want the company, not even as close as next door.” Her knowing smile convinced Simone that the girl’s experience was already more extensive than it should be, far greater than own. “Asides, I’ll be fine. My brother’ll be nearby. He’s staying at the stables, on account of Harold going into the village where there’s more room, what with all the grooms and extra servants here.”
Simone vowed she’d find that oversized muckworm later, with her hat pin. She’d find another one to give to Sarah for protection. Meanwhile, she had to dress for dinner. Some of the women, according to Sarah, took all afternoon to get ready. Simone wished she could take another week.
The gown they decided on, they being Sarah and Metlock—was of blue silk, with a blond lace overskirt tied at the high waist with matching blue ribbons. Sarah wove another through her fiery hair, then let one long, ribbon-entwined braid of it fall over Simone’s shoulder. She fussed with the puffed sleeves and pulled down the bodice that Simone kept yanking higher.
“The others will be showing off their jewels, Miss Noma. If you want to outshine them, you’d best be showing more bosom.”
“Compared to Claire Hope, I have none. Hope, or bosom.”
Sarah clucked her tongue. “You have natural beauty, that’s what, and no one can say different.”
The maid’s prejudiced opinion did not reassure Simone. Harry’s low whistle of admiration did, especially when it was joined to a crooked grin showing dimples. He came in from the dressing room, his hair wet from his own bath. He was dressed in formal evening clothes, white satin knee breeches, midnight blue coat, a white marcella waistcoat, and a large sapphire in his high, intricately tied neckcloth. He had a velvet box in his hand. He paused in the doorway to watch Sarah hand Simone a lace fan with forget-me-nots painted on it.
“I doubt anyone will ever forget how you look tonight, my dear. I know I won’t.” He handed her the box. “Only this could make your ensemble complete. I hope you will wear it, for me.”
Simone raised the lid to find a gold chain with a filigree pendant, set with a sapphire to match the one he wore, the ribbons on her gown, and his eyes. He’d planned the whole outfit with Madame Journet, she realized, disregarding her wishes. “Tell me this is paste,” she begged.
“And ruin my dinner with the lie? That is, I would not give you false compliments or false gems. I am afraid it is quite real.”
“But we agreed that—
He looked at Sarah and nodded toward the door to the hall. “Your lady is dressed. You have done well. Go on now to your own supper. And stay close to Metlock and Jem. I promised your mother you’d be safe.”
“I’ll be as safe as I want to be, thank you. Mum sent me to learn a bit about the world, didn’t she?”
“Saucy minx. Get on with you.”
When Sarah was gone, Harry took the necklace from its box and told Simone to turn around. He lifted the trailing braid of red hair and blue ribbon, then kissed the back of her neck.
“No one is watching,” Simone told him. “You do not have to do that.”
“Oh, yes, I do. I’ve been wanting to do so since I first saw you with your prim bun at the back of your neck.” He kissed her again.
“Your necktie.”
“Hmm. Who cares about the damn thing around my throat when I can finally taste yours?” He was taking tiny nips on her bare skin, tiny licks.
Simone stepped away before he noticed she was trembling. “You’ll muss it and Metlock will be furious and we will be late for dinner.”
He smiled. “We cannot have that, can we?” He fastened the chain around her neck, then turned her around to adjust the large pendant to rest in the valley between her breasts. He kissed there too. Simone gasped.
“Is it cold against your skin?”
No, it was on fire.
*
Their hostess was sulking after dinner. The men, after much argument and a few bottles, had convinced Gorham to change the singing portion of the tourney to a talent show. The ballet dancer could compete against the trick horse rider. One of the actresses could perform after Miss Althorp, who fancied herself a poetess, and so on. A few of the women would provide the entertainment each evening, with all of the men, not merely their host, voting for the winner.
No one wanted to be first, not without practice and preparation, so this night was declared a holiday from the competition. Claire refused to sing, saving her voice for her actual performance, but someone suggested music anyway. Two of the women sang country tunes while Noma and a few of the others took turns at the pianoforte. Several gentlemen joined in the choruses, and soon the drawing room was resounding with rollicking tavern songs.
“Would you care for cards?” Harry asked Simone when the verses turned risqué and the wine turned to potent punch. “They are getting up tables in another room.”
Two couples seemed to be playing for articles of clothing, instead of points, to bystanders’ inebriated hilarity. Harry led Simone to a quieter corner, facing away from the outrageous exhibition. They played piquet, and after three games, Harry warned her not to count on winning that round of the competition.
She hadn’t been counting on anything, not the cards in her hand or the points on the score sheet, only the number of ga
rments tossed onto the floor with each raucous outburst. She knew her face must be scarlet enough to clash with her hair.
“Shall we call it a night, my dear?” Harry asked, gallantly coming to her rescue. “It’s been a long day.”
It was going to be a longer night, sharing a bedroom with a man who’d betrayed her trust, and whose kisses turned her mind to mush. “How about a chess match?”
Chapter Thirteen
“You are still angry at me, aren’t you?” Harry asked later that night.
“What gives you that idea?” Simone answered from within the tightly drawn curtains of the canopied bed.
Harry looked at the closed hangings surrounding the bed, then at the stack of pillows and blankets on the floor near the hearth. A familiar velvet box rested on top of the pile. “Oh, a lucky guess, I suppose.” He sighed loudly enough to be heard from within Simone’s draped cocoon. “The floor covering is not very thick, you know.”
“Your skin cannot be all that thin, not with the barbs that bounced off you tonight. Harry the Heartbreaker, humph. There are extra blankets in the dressing room. Put another down over the rug.”
He sighed again. “I’ll wake up with a stiff neck and a sore back.”
The silence from the direction of the bed told how much Simone cared about his comfort.
“What if Metlock or Sarah comes into the room early and sees me sleeping on the floor? Worse, what if one of Gorham’s servants enters to rekindle the fire and trips over me? How will we explain that?”
“We won’t need to explain anything if you simply lock the door. I’d suppose, in this household, the servants are used to waiting until they are called.”
He didn’t bother sighing another time, realizing he’d get no sympathy. “You are a hard woman, Miss Noma Royale. And a cheat. I think you moved your king while I helped pick Sir Chauncey Phipps off the floor.”
“I won.”
“Too bad we were not playing for kisses like some of the others.”
“I would not do such a thing!”
“I know, and I apologize for exposing you to the unseemly behavior, but it’s part and parcel of this affair.”
The Scandalous Life of a True Lady Page 12