by Thea Devine
Dear Lord, the man is a traitor. . .
She was hardly aware he had left; she turned slowly toward the window and leaned her burning head against the molding and the sheer curtain that framed the glass.
She could see the front steps and Southam marching briskly, angrily down them to signal to the boy who had been walking his horse to bring him forward. He mounted with a kind of suppressed violence; the horse reacted to his anger, rearing upward and to the side before he got control.
A moment later, his back ramrod straight, he headed down the street, leaving a retinue of Lady Waynflete's stable boys gawking in admiration behind him.
And one lone figure, dressed in fawn, edged his way furtively along the row of houses across the way, looking as if he were lost, the set of his body familiar, like the man who had lurked in the shadows the night before.
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Yes, my lord, here is the truth of it: the traitor is your uncle, and he is my father, and somewhere in the bushes, he has posted watch guards to be sure.
To be sure of what? That she didn't leave the house?
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That no one came in? To ambush her? To contain her?
This had become an unrelenting nightmare. At night, again alone in the house, she had kept watch by the window, certain Southam would never come, that Dunstan would not chance it even with Lady Waynflete gone, because the servants would know.
How cunningly Lady Waynflete had eased her out of the social scene. She was amazed at how quickly it could be done, how painlessly on the part of her patroness. The cards would keep pouring in, she knew, for another day or two or three, and then the gossip would start. Someone would pass the word: the beautiful Lady Desire was persona non grata with her mentor; Southam would abandon her. Jeremy would ask her to leave because Lady Waynflete was too kind-hearted.
And finally, her father would arrange for her to disappear altogether.
And Southam, with whom she had shared all those wanton nights of passion, would forget she ever existed, and he would lay in the arms of the milk-pail who would service him with all the imagination of a cow . . .
Never!
She could not bear to think of it—his high and mighty lord of lechery leering after that . . . person.
Surely he had more discrimination ... ah, but men never had any judgment about strumpets whatsoever.
And that was not the point, either, she castigated herself, as she paced her room. Southam's ultimatum was the point. The man who might be skulking outside under her window was the point.
She edged her way to the far window, just beyond the point of light that illuminated the room.
The darkness was stunning, unrelieved by any light but a distant street light. Every shadow seemed to move and sway with the wind. Any shape could be a man or a tree.
She felt lost in it, as if she were the only one in the
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world looking outward and seeing nothing. It made her feel insignificant, frightened of something larger than she that moved with all the patience of an unforgiving and slow-moving nature.
The blackness had no answers: it was impenetrable as Southam's eyes. One had to grope and feel one's way through it, and ultimately, surrender to it.
There was no other possibility.
She had to play the game Southern's way. It struck her suddenly as she stared into the blank darkness of the night that embodied all the threats surrounding her and crushing her: it was simple really.
All she had to do was find her father.
It didn't matter who, it didn't matter where. It just mattered that she found someone so that the bargain would be met.
She would figure out the rest later.
She wasn't at all surprised to see the movement: had she not been looking so intently, her eyes now accustomed to the dark, she would not have noted it. But it was there, muted, subtle, melting into the shadows now and again, distinct for a moment's verification that the light still flickered in her room and that she was still there.
She felt like a cat, hiding in the shadows, she felt like the huntress, sniffing its prey. Soon, soon she would pounce, and then she would seize the day.
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It was Annesley's turn this time, this night, a small amusement for a bored constituency of friends and a jaded man about town who had very little to do until the seasonal horde descended to give him grist for his gossip mill. He liked to provide a prodigious dinner, some music, some dancing, and above all, in the back room, where it counted, a gut-wrenching game of cards to rival anything to be had at Badlington's or any of the clubs.
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The party was just to provide a reason to lure his friends to the table and to provide the ton with something to talk about.
The exclusivity of the guest list made social climbers and aggressive mothers reel with despair; there was no telling how one got a coveted invitation, and only Annesley's closest friends knew that the eclectic mix of guests was served up solely for his amusement. He was like a man setting off fireworks and standing back to watch the resultant display, and he had coolly and calculatedly decided not to invite the desirable Miss Bowman solely on the grounds that she would distract the men from deep deep play. However, Charlotte Emerlin was another matter. He was rather taken with her bold transformation and her even more audacious pursuit of the ever more aloof Nicholas Carradine.
He wanted to watch her in action, without the tempting diversion of the beauteous Lady Desire. He wanted to watch Nicholas squirm, and he wanted the gorgeous Miss Bowman to know that her allure was based solely on the fact that others acclaimed it, and he himself had named it.
In short, he loved having control, and he watched with a disdainful and amused eye as his guests began arriving and looking around.
"Ah, Nick —you look utterly put out. Truly, you did not have to exercise yourself to come tonight. However, I thought it was diverting that Dunstan accepted an invitation. I left out Charles Griswold, he really is still too tender to jump into steep play. Now, what do you think of my table?"
Nicholas was in a foul mood altogether; he had lost at an exceedingly whimsical bet to one of the Prince Regent's intimates earlier in the day at White's and he was about to trowel in another several thousand pounds to Annesley's tables, and that on top of the exacerbating ultimatum he had given the intractable Miss Bowman.
His mood did not improve at the sight of Charlotte
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Emerlin being towed into the reception hallway by her battleship of a mother; Gertrude was primed and ready for a good fight, he could see it in her eyes. She knew to a title who was to be present this evening, and Charlotte was dressed for combat, a willing extension of the blood lust in her mother's eye.
"Ah, Nicholas, how delightful to see you."
Conventional enough words, and he had come to expect the very obvious from Lady Emerlin, but the underlay of sarcasm had to be squelched immediately.
"The delight is solely on your side," he said dampingly.
But she would not be deterred. "Of course it is—that is why we are here. But enough of pleasantries; come, Charlotte . . ."
"Damn," Annesley said, "she got up a head of steam in the past year, didn't she? She won't take any guff from you, Nick."
"Yes, she probably thinks that her erstwhile servility did not serve the point, and now she means to be as abominably offensive as possible. It will be amusing to watch, at any rate. Will Lucretia be here?"
"She will, and Jeremy as well, and all of our crowd who are on strict notice to assemble in the card room at nine promptly. And of course, I've included Dunstan as a compliment to you, Nick, because I know you will make good his losses."
Something about that sly assumption did not sit well with Nicholas, but he resisted commenting and went off to find a tolerable slice of ham and a glass of port.
The incoming crowd swirled around him, heavy with the heat of gossip and innuendo, each and every one checking out who h
ad been included on the guest list and who had not.
He heard the whispers as he circulated the room: "Where is Miss Bowman? He did not invite her? She did not come? Lady Desire, Lady Desire—cut by Annesley? Snubbed by the
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top of the ton? What had she done? Why would he not include the most talked about beauty of the Season . . . ?"
And wave after wave of languid young men cornered Annesley: "Is that Incomparable, that one they call Lady Desire, is she to be here tonight?"
"Not tonight," Annesley would tell them, and after a time, he went in search of Nicholas. "I think I've created more interest in her by not inviting her, damn it. She is all they talk about, and I wish they knew that it was I who created her."
"Nonsense," Nicholas snapped, out of all patience with Annesley's indulgences. "She created you, Max. Could you ever picture hanging such a voluptuous name on Charlotte Emerlin?"
"My God, no," Annesiey said, much struck by Nicholas’ logic. By all rights, the chit ought to be here then, he thought, but it was too late to remedy the omission—unless he sent a special invitation to her personally, begging her forgiveness for the oversight of neglecting her.
What sight, he thought gleefully, the elegant and luscious Miss Bowman tripping in the door about midnight, just after everyone had been talking about her absence for hours. It was too good, too ripe to pass up.
He motioned to his butler, and he sent for some paper and a pen.
******************
The man remained, blended into the shadows, and Jainee felt like a princess in a fairy tale kept prisoner by the ugly troll.
Lady Waynflete had gone off to some exclusive party, the details of which she did not need to disclose to Jainee; she was alone in the house but for Marie, Blexter and Lady Waynflete’s retinue of servants.
And of course, the Watcher.
It came on nine o'clock and she had not moved. Neither
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had her shadowy nemesis, and she wondered why she was standing, staring out a window at some unknown whose sole function was to keep her in a state of agitation.
Whatever happened, she could not remove him from his post; she could not blackmail Lady Waynflete's host into inviting her to the party; she could not rescind Southern's ultimatum of her father's threatening presence.
Attack, attack, attack . . .
She wondered what maidens of virtue did with their evenings when a finicky host or hostess removed them from the eligible guest list. Probably they spent the night crying buckets of tears and did needlepoint to while away the hours.
But she could not stand the enforced idleness. How many years had she spent in anticipation of a night's energetic play around her mother's table? Nothing had prepared her for a life of gentility: Southam's positioning her with the upright and morally correct Lady Waynflete had to be the biggest joke of all. No wonder they chafed at each other and Lady Waynflete could not cope with her waywardness. She was used to prim and proper young ladies who were thrilled at the thought of a Season in London, and chastened at committing any faux pas that would make them look bad before the censuring eyes of the ton.
Attack . . .
Her position any which way was tenuous at best: Lady Waynflete was ready to wash her hands of her; Southam would imminently give her her congι; her father watched her in order to intimidate her and perhaps do her bodily harm.
She knew what she was thinking. Deep down, deep deep down in that place where her soul had forever lived on the edge of disaster with Therese, deep down there she knew, she wanted action, she needed excitement. She yearned to vanquish her enemies with the ease that she had time and again defeated Southam.
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All her enemies were at play; why should she not be?
Should she let the unknown watcher keep her immured in her tower of propriety when her reputation was steeped in the name of seduction?
She could not keep still a moment longer. If she hesitated, she handed the power to her enemy, to Southam, to her father.
She moved across the lighted window to the bell pull and gave it a violent jerk.
Marie came running.
"Tell Blexter I wish to have my trunk pulled out of storage, wherever that may be," she directed Marie.
Marie did not protest, although she knew that one of the footman would have to go to a great deal of trouble to unearth it from the attics.
Nevertheless, within the half hour, Jainee was opening the somewhat dusty case and rooting around in its contents, oblivious to Marie's avid gaze until she looked up suddenly and saw her hovering. "That will be all for now, Marie," she told her. "However, would you ask Blexter to have Hawkins bring round the least identifiable conveyance in the carriage house. I will be going out tonight."
"Surely not, mademoiselle. What if— ?"
"I am going out," Jainee said firmly and waited calmly and impassively until Marie withdrew from the room before she delved back into the remnants of her life in Brighton.
And here was that blue dress, and there was another gown, glittery with shot silver, and here were the plain, unadorned underdresses she had worn with each, and accessories, and a long hooded black velvet cape lined in deep sapphire blue silk.
All of these cherished dresses and items she removed from the trunk to empty it to the very bottom. And there, in a little secret hiding place which required that she prise open the floor of the trunk in a certain place and in a certain way in order to uncover the riches she had concealed there.
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And hope that no one had been so suspicious of her when she had arrived that he had covertly searched her belongings.
But no . . . her hoarded cache of silver remained in place, glittering and cold to her touch, exactly where she had placed it. The gentility did not search for spies behind every corner and inside every trunk. The gentility went by appearances, and by what was said and who sponsored whom, and for the only time since she had comprehended that, she felt grateful that Lady Waynflete had taken her at face value and on Southam's say-so.
And now, spread out before her was a record of her life in Brighton, the clothing which Lady Waynflete had discarded in pursuit of more elegant attire.
She lifted one dress from the pile beside her, the beautiful tunic dress she had been wearing when Southam walked through the door at Lady Truscott's ... an omen, perhaps? Who among the high-stakes speculators at the Lady Badlington's house would remember the gaming house hostess in Brighton of a year before?
Or perhaps she ought to disguise herself still further. The cape, over the dress, softened by a drift of blue silk wound around her head and across her chin to blur her features— cover her mouth, perhaps? Pulled down close to her eyes to give her a look of mystery, an aura of the exotic?
She must not be identified as Lady Waynflete's protegιe, at least not yet, but as she surveyed herself in the mirror, clothed in the blue tunic dress with its embroidered bands of trim, she saw immediately she could not arrive and discard her cloak: everyone would know her. And even if she swathed her body up to her nose in cloak and blue silk, she was sure someone would recognize her startling blue eyes.
Ah, but the chance must be taken. She had gone a mile already toward the ravishing excitement of taking to the gaming table again. She could not stop now.
She found a pair of black gloves and added them to her
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wardrobe, and a black velvet reticule in which to carry her stake.
She looked vaguely Egyptian, she thought, as she gave herself one last going over in the mirror, and checked that she had replaced the secret bottom of her trunk.
All was proper there, and as a final touch, she heaped the dozen or so dresses and accoutrements every which way into the trunk and just left it, open, yawning, inviting Marie or any of the house maids to explore its contents as they would.
And she—she was going to deliberately walk into hell in order to create her own little heaven.
Chapter Sevent
een
The play in the card room at Annesley's house was deep and steep and rather bad-tempered. Beyond the baize door of the entrance to the room, they could hear the music loud and sweet, and the sound of laughter and conversation, the optimum atmosphere for a party.
It was just that the host was nowhere to be found in the public rooms, and time and again a servant came to the door requesting his presence or his direction, and on the whole the game was so riddled with these distractions that it became hard to tell who was up and who was down and by how much.
Except that it was clear that Southam was flat out, at point non plus with one of the Prince Regent's cronies who had deigned to play with them that evening.
"Ah, Nicholas, give over: you've had a bad run of luck for this year and more. No use repining. The thing's done and the only course is to try to recoup." This from Annesley who was gleefully counting his vouchers as he turned for the next deal.
And Dunstan Carradine, too, was five or six hundred to the good and he was being insufferably vocal about it, which Nicholas did not take kindly.
Over and above that, the port was flowing, poured by Annesley's generous hand, and every once in a while one or two of the eligible demoiselles who were audacious and on the catch made so bold as to join the gentlemen and hang over their shoulders to encourage them to recklessness in the course of the play.
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It was a perfect opportunity for Gertrude Emerlin to push Charlotte forward once again; but she did not need much coaxing. After all, there were a half dozen delicious men half-foxed sitting around in one room tossing cards onto a table. Surely a little blatant femininity would be a welcome diversion.
She even liked the fact that the door was closed discreetly behind her. And the room was dimly lit, except for the table, and surrounded by a haze of smoke, and the faintly sweet scent of liqueur and wine.
There was a sideboard along one wall on which was the remnants of a variety of viands which had been served en buffet. Now and again, Nicholas or his uncle or Chevrington or Coxe reached across and nipped another morsel of meat or fruit and then returned to play. They continually argued about this card and that, sounding like nothing so much as children negotiating their play.