The Scandalous Life of a True Lady

by Barbara Metzger

  She was ready to convince him to go to bed early that night when he said, “I need you.”

  “You do?” That was just what she wanted to hear. Now she could get him into her bed, for another taste of what he’d shown her before. Then she thought about it. Who wanted a man who was stirred to passion by another woman’s seductive dance? Sandaree’s performance was suddenly not quite as amusing. “I do not see why every man here is so affected. It was only a dance, after all.”

  “Only a dance? Claire’s voice is only a warble by that standard. But you sound jealous, my love.” He lowered his voice. “How can that be, when ours is no more than a business arrangement?”

  Was that all he thought of her, an employee? Was that all they had? Simone pounded on his chest, right over where his heart would be, if the bounder had one. “Feelings do not have to make sense. They just are.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I do have feelings, my dear Noma. And I do understand that not everything makes sense. Heaven knows I’ve had to live with that fact my entire life. Right now I need you, not a woman whose parts revolve as if they’re not connected to each other. I’m not saying your friend can’t make a man want to drown in the whirlpool her fascinating movements create, but that’s what a man does. He feels lust for a beautiful woman doing beautiful things with her body. Hell, that was a mating dance to put a peacock’s display to shame. But right now, you are all I want.”

  Finally! Simone felt like dancing herself, to hear Harry confess his desire. It was no declaration of love, not even of fondness, and no promise of a future after the house party was over, but it was something. Something she wanted.

  She knew Harry wanted it too, although he was full of excuses and evasions. He’d been running from the attraction between them, afraid she’d want more than he was willing to offer. Or afraid he’d want more. If Sandaree’s dancing had shown him how foolish it was to waste the time they did have, to deny them both the pleasure, she’d get Sandaree to teach her to charm snakes.

  Lust and caring were better than nothing, she decided. If she couldn’t have his love, she’d take his lovemaking. Harry’s code of honor dictated that he save her for a husband, which he did not intend to be. But how could she go to another man, knowing her heart was lost to Harry? That would be far more dishonest than to wed missing her maidenhead.

  Simone supposed Harry’s irregular birth fostered his honor and his devotion to the truth. He was baseborn, so he must feel he had to act with nobility to rise above the ridicule, disdain and shame of his birth. Not that she wished Harry to be less honorable, of course, except now. She took his hand in hers and started to lead him toward the stairs before he could change his mind.

  He pulled her in the opposite direction down the hall, toward Gorham’s library.

  “Aren’t we going to our room?”

  “Zeus, no. I can’t trust myself there.”

  She wanted to shout out that he could trust her to know what was best for herself, but her disappointment made her ask: “Then we aren’t going to…?”

  He turned and took her shoulders, looking into her eyes with that blue fire of his stare. “We are going to do what we came for: to do our duty and serve our country. We have to solve a crime, destroy a plot, and make a stir here. This is business, and it has to come before any personal desire. Do you understand?”

  She understood he was reminding her of their arrangement. She was paid to act as his mistress. That was all. A pretense, with no emotion, no involvement. He might be stirred by Sandaree’s display, but not enough to forget his mission, or her place in it.

  “Yes, Harry, I understand.”

  He rapped loudly on the library door, then opened it when no one answered. Gorham and Claire were still in the music room, Simone knew, unless they’d left for the late supper Claire always served after the performances. Either way, neither of them could be here in the library.

  “Should we be going into the private rooms?”

  “What we need is inside.” He led her halfway into the room, which was illuminated only by the fire in the hearth and two oil lamps. Harry blew one out, creating more shadows in the long room.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Wait. Follow my lead. You’ll know.”

  He listened, so she listened, and shortly heard footsteps approaching down the hall. Harry drew her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers. “Now,” he murmured. “Act like you’re enjoying this.”

  So she kissed him back and moaned with pleasure and cried, “Oh, Harry.” She’d seldom enjoyed anything more.

  The butler came in with a tray. He coughed, backed out, and closed the door behind him.

  Simone stepped away from Harry. “That was what you brought me here for, to embarrass the poor butler?”

  “He’s seen worse.” Harry’s head was cocked, still listening for sounds in the corridor. He took her back into his arms, this time with one of his hands moving down her back, her waist, her backside, pulling her more firmly against his heat and hardness. His other hand was at her breast, feeling her heat and softness.

  “Harry!” she said with a squeak. “Someone is coming.”

  He grinned. “That’s the point, sweetings.”

  Claire and Gorham opened the door, but stopped in the entry when they saw the entwined couple right in front of them. Simone’s bright red hair was unmistakable, even in the single lamp’s light.

  “Dash it, Harry, everyone has the same idea,” Gorham complained while Claire pretended to be studying a nearby bookcase. “I’ve never seen so many young bucks tugging on their trousers or holding their girlfriends’ fans in front of them—or dragging those same women off to dark corners and unoccupied rooms. It was that dance, don’t you know. Claire thought she’d try, that is, we are going to discuss the voting and tomorrow’s ball. The devil take it, this is my library and I don’t have to make excuses. I thought you were using the needlework parlor, anyway.”

  “My apologies, Gorham. I do appreciate the use of that room for my correspondence, but the portrait of Lady Gorham hangs there. Your wife doesn’t approve of us either. Her sour look is not conducive to romance, is it?”

  “Why do you think I took a mistress in the first place? Ah, well, I suppose we ought to see if anyone wants supper. Come, my dear. We are the hosts and should set a better example. Then again, we could see if the gardens are empty.”

  Claire sent one last sneer in Simone’s direction. “You might want to lock the door, Miss Royale. At least pretend to be a proper female.”

  Simone was blushing like a schoolboy caught stealing apples but she couldn’t keep a giggle from escaping. She was a proper female who was pretending to be a harlot. Now Claire wanted that feigned doxy to act like a lady, while Harry wanted the lady in her to abandon all modesty and decency. “Thank you. I will. Lock the door, that is.”

  Harry did it for her when Claire and Gorham left. Then, instead of taking her back into his arms, he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, crossed the room, and opened the window.

  Sir Chauncey Phipps scrambled over the sill. Simone almost shrieked, but Harry hurried back to put his hand over her mouth. “Sh.”

  “Do not shush me. Throw that reprobate out!”

  Harry pointed to the closed door and whispered, “Keep your voice down before someone comes to see what the commotion is about.”

  She did try for an outraged whisper. “That drunkard is going to ruin everything.” Especially her time with Harry now that they were alone again. “Tell him to leave.”

  “I am sorry, my love, but I can’t do that. Chappy is a friend of mine. And one of the best cracksman in England. A safe-breaker, if you will.”

  “He is a sotted fool!”

  Sir Chauncey winked at her. “Excellent disguise, eh? Better than a moustache and dark glasses. No one suspects a souse of anything, and no one watches what they say when he’s slumped over a table.”

  The bald-headed buffoon wasn’t staggerin
g for once. He wasn’t slurring his words or drooling, and no flask or bottle was in sight. She turned to Harry while Sir Chauncey turned to a certain wall of books. He was sober, a friend, and a thief? Her head was spinning from Harry’s kiss; that’s why she was so confused. “You say he’s a criminal?”

  Harry went to help, pushing on a section of the bookcase that swung open to reveal a large wall safe.

  “Chappy’s no jailbird. Gorham would never invite a felon. He’s a sworn knight, elevated for performing heroic service during the war, although no one knows about it. They think Chappy got the knighthood because he paid Prinny’s debts to get the recognition. That wasn’t the case at all. What he did was steal countless valuable documents for us in France before they threw out all the English. He’d have been sent to the guillotine before he could have a last glass of wine, if the French knew.”

  “Does Miss Baylor know?”

  Sir Chauncey paused in his work to tell Simone, “Susan’s a ballet dancer, not an actress. She doesn’t have your gumption.”

  Simone nodded at the compliment.

  “She’s greedy, though,” Sir Chauncey continued. “So she puts up with me. The revulsion she can’t hide adds to my character.”

  The rumpot/patriot was working on the safe with a set of tools he took from a pocket. Simone had a hard time believing what she was seeing or hearing. “So you are here to rob from our host?”

  Chappy looked up and grinned. “Bad form, that. We’re merely recovering stolen property.”

  Harry explained it better: “We are taking back what Danforth stole. That way, he can’t use the papers to demand money.”

  “You know that the letters you were looking for are in the safe? Why haven’t you had Danforth arrested then?”

  “What, and have the letters and journal be seized for proof of his guilt? That defeats the whole purpose of keeping them away from the scandal sheets and public knowledge. Besides, we still have no proof that Danforth placed the evidence in the safe. He won’t talk to me.”

  “Or me,” Simone said, “especially since hearing I have Gypsy blood.”

  “Or me,” Chappy added happily enough. “And I’m not even a whore or a bastard.”

  Simone looked at Harry to see if he was offended at the reminder of his birth, but he’d gone back to the window. She assumed he was going to close it before the room grew cold, but instead he leaned out and brought in a saddlebag. Daniel Stamfield clambered over the window sill after it.

  “You, too?” Simone remembered to whisper. Heavens, if that butler came back, he’d know something was afoot.

  Daniel bowed to Simone, then went to watch Sir Chauncey at work.

  “You had this all planned?” Simone asked Harry.

  He removed a stack of papers and three books from the saddlebag. “As best we could. I only saw the documents for an instant, so I had Daniel bring extra loose pages and several sizes of journals for the switch. Our package will be as close to the original in appearance as possible.”

  Chappy had the safe open. They all gathered to look in. Claire saw velvet pouches, leather purses, another strongbox, a set of dueling pistols in a case, plus stacks of guineas and pound notes.

  “The entry fees for Claire’s contest,” Harry explained, “and the prize money.”

  “Too bad we’re such honest folk,” Daniel said, reaching over for a parcel of letters tied with string.

  Harry saw Simone staring at a diamond necklace by itself in a corner of the safe. “I think Claire would recognize it.”

  Simone jumped back. “I wasn’t thinking of taking it!”

  Harry’s lips made a grimace. Daniel rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Truly, I wouldn’t do anything so dishonest!”

  Daniel rubbed his ear, and Harry found a peppermint drop in his pocket. “Of course not, my love. You only pretend to be a prostitute. It’s not at all the same.”

  He and Daniel spread the stolen letters out on Gorham’s desk, counting the number of pages so they could place the same amount in the fake parcel. The journal was slightly different from any Daniel had brought, but they agreed that Danforth wasn’t likely to notice the difference when Gorham handed it to him.

  “How will you prove they were his?”

  “Gorham will recall who asks for them back, now that I mentioned it to him. But it does not matter if we are wrong about Danforth. The important thing was to collect the blackmail material.”

  Simone was positive Danforth was guilty. The pompous twit treated Sandaree like a slave, and even struck her. “He should be brought up on charges.”

  “A duke’s son? That won’t happen in this lifetime. I daresay he’ll face a bit of private retribution, if we have proof.”

  Daniel flexed his fists. Sir Chauncey studied the sharp tool in his hand. Harry looked grim.

  The duke’s scoundrel of a son would pay, all right.

  Simone wanted to know what they were going to do with the originals. She looked toward the fireplace. “Shall we burn them?”

  Harry shook his head. “We are going to take the journal back to its proper owner, and urge her to destroy it. The letters will go to the victims of the extortion attempt, the fools who sent them in the first place. That way, they’ll have proof that no one else will hold the letters against them. I hope to god they burn them, once and for all.”

  He handed the new pile of letters and journal, tied with the old string, to Chappy to return to the safe.

  Daniel tucked the originals in the saddlebag and sighed. “I’m wearing a rut in the road to London, I am. Are you sure you won’t go this time, Harry? Fidus could be there and back in the wink of an eye.”

  “You know neither Fidus nor I can be seen in Town yet. Go.”

  Daniel sighed again on his way toward the window. “I’ll be back in time for the ball tomorrow night, Miss Royale. Remember that you promised me a dance.”

  “I remember. I am looking forward to it.”

  Daniel grinned, scratched at his armpit, and went out the window.

  “May I also request a dance?” Sir Chauncey asked.

  “Only if you do not step on my toes.”

  He laughed. “It’s all part of the disguise, my dear. All part of the disguise. But I will try not to tear your skirt. I’ll save that for the scornful Miss Baylor. Lud knows I paid for the blasted thing.” He followed Daniel out the window.

  Harry closed the window, then made certain the wall safe and the books were exactly as they had found them.

  “I suppose we’re done for the night,” Simone said, feeling let down now that the others were gone and the excitement was over.

  “Not at all,” Harry told her. “We have to be convincing, don’t we? And I wouldn’t want anyone thinking a quick tumble on the hearth rug was the best I could do. I do have my reputation as a lover to consider, after all.”

  Simone did not want to think about his reputation or his past conquests. Now the hearth rug…

  “And yours,” he continued. “Those rakes should know you can hold a man’s interest for an entire night.” Or a week, a month, a lifetime, but he did not say those words. “Besides, that leather arm chair looks deuced comfortable to me.”

  “You…you are going to take a nap in Lord Gorham’s library?

  “I have no intention of sleeping, my dear. Will you join me?”

  “On the chair?”

  “What do you think Claire and Gorham were going to do, read a book?”

  “No, he said they were going to discuss plans for the ball. And the voting.”

  “You believed him?”

  “No, I suspected Claire was going to plot a new way to manipulate him to change the point count. Either that or they were going to practice their dancing for the competition tomorrow night.”

  His lip curled down on one side, then up until he wore a broad smile that showed the dimples Simone adored. “No, that’s not what they were going to do. Trust me, my love, that’s simply not true.”

&
nbsp; He drew her over toward the big leather chair, sat and pulled her across his lap. “But if it’s practice we need, shall we dance?”

  “On the chair?”

  He kissed her protests away.

  What a dance it was. All swirls, twirls, whirls; fast and slow and loud and soft. Mostly it was urgent, far more so than the need to win any race, any contest. Simone was dizzy and breathless and giddy, and her feet never touched the ground. She wanted the dance to go on forever, but Harry stopped the music before it was too late to stop. She knew there was more, another kind of crescendo, but this was enough, for now. She doubted there’d ever been a more enthralling waltz, or a more satisfied virgin.

  “Oh, Harry.”

  *

  Oh, hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Harry slept on the chair in the bedroom. The dog slept with Simone. That’s how Harry felt, lower than a stray with a sore mouth. He left before Simone awoke, knowing she’d be too tempting to leave if he didn’t go soon. Later she’d be busy getting ready for the ball tonight. He’d be watching to see who took what out of Gorham’s safe, after a long, hard ride on Fidus, and a long, cold swim in Gorham’s trout stream.

  For once Simone slept late, not surprising after last night in the library. She’d barely made it up the stairs on boneless limbs.

  When Metlock told her that Harry had gone riding, she almost scrambled into her habit to join him, but he could be miles away by now, or off on his secret activities. For all she knew, he and his friend Sir Chauncey were robbing the nearest bank.

  Sarah came in full of energy and excitement at the coming ball. There was going to be music in the barn for the servants and the tenants, but the wagering among the ladies’ maids was more crucial. Whichever mistress won the best dressed contest, her maid won the betting pool. Sarah was determined to collect the purse.

  She brought a breakfast tray so Simone did not have to go down, to save time.

  “Surely it is far too early to begin dressing for tonight,” Simone protested, wanting to wait for Harry’s return, to spend more time with him.