The Lady’s Lover

by Deb Marlowe

  Behind her, a footman rushed off. The butler sent for a blanket, but Amelia arrived first, with two noblemen on her heels.

  “Hestia, darling! Oh, my word, you are bleeding.” She waved a frantic hand. “Hot water, fresh towels. Someone ready a room upstairs!”

  Her arm around Hestia, Amelia turned to her visitors. “I’m afraid I must ask you to call again some other time, gentlemen,” she began.

  “Wait!” Hestia ordered. “Men. We will need men.”

  One of the gentlemen struck a pose. “Of course. Anything you ladies need.”

  Hestia shook her head. “I need someone to watch the Red Fox. And the Queen’s Crown. We need to keep watch for Stoneacre.”

  “Your footmen, gentlemen!” Amelia ordered. “Send them to me here. The more strapping, the better!” She steered Hestia toward the stairs. “You, my dear, are going nowhere until we get you clean and warm and dry and take care of that nasty lump.” She looked back at the butler. “A bath, Wilkins! Right away.”

  Amelia took over completely and Hestia allowed it. She felt numb in body and spirit as she was stripped of her clothes and settled into a hot bath. A maid took her clothes away and Amelia raised a finger. “Soak. Relax. I’ll be back in a thrice.”

  Alone.

  The quiet settled in around her. So did the worry. Where was Stoneacre? Was he alive? Of course he was, she told herself sternly. That crowd of malcontents would be no match for him. But what would he be thinking? Feeling? Their time apart was over. He thought he wanted more, but they were about to go back to the real world—and to all of the real complications that world stand in the way of such a lovely idea.

  The tears started then. Silent and streaming without number, they mixed with the bath water while her emotions reeled.

  Everything was mixed up. She was free. Marstoke was gone. She should be relieved. But she couldn’t fight the strange blend of grief and guilt when she thought of him—and of Beth.

  She bit back a sob. She’d thought she would be happy. She wanted to be happy. Instead she felt furious and fearful and forlorn at the hole inside of her—and the knowledge that only one person could heal it.

  And the knowledge that it likely wouldn’t happen.

  “Here, now. Enough of that.” Amelia entered, bearing a tray of brandy and glasses. “Here. This will warm you from the inside.” She handed Hestia a glass and nodded in approval when she tossed it back.

  Hestia held the glass out in silent appeal for another. She sipped that one, while Amelia pulled a chair close, then poured one for herself. “Now. Talk. And start with Marstoke. Where is he?”

  “Gone.” Hestia drank again. “Dead.”

  Amelia sat back in surprise. “Well.” She took a sip, too. “Or rather, well done. Tell me everything.”

  Hestia did. All of it. About Stoneacre, as well. Everything.

  The water had gone cold before she finished, so she stood and wrapped herself in a thick robe while she continued to talk. Amelia came and carefully cleaned the cut behind her ear while she listened, then stood behind her and drew a comb through her tangled hair.

  When Hestia had finally finished, she met her friend’s gaze in the mirror. “I don’t know what to do, now.”

  “Well, your choices are certainly wider than before,” Amelia mused. “It is sad to say, but that girl has lifted a burden from you. Marstoke is gone. He won’t be watching you, taunting you, or hurting women any longer. You won’t have to dismantle a string of opium dens. There is no carting him to justice or worrying about him escaping captivity once again. No fervent preparation of evidence against him or the public suffering through a trial.” She set the brush down. “Your long fight is over, Hestia. What do you want to do?”

  Tears welled again, despite her best efforts to suppress them. She bit her lip and stared at her friend in the mirror.

  “Ohhh.” Amelia went and poured them both another drink. She sat in a nearby chair and pursed her lips. “Stoneacre. Does he want you, too?”

  Hestia sighed. “I think he does. However—”

  “There’s a lot of how in that however,” her friend said baldly. “I know you are no stranger to scandal, but it’s been a while, and this one will be . . . beyond measure.” She shook her head. “His family, too, will be an obstacle. You will be trading one sort of fight for another, vicious in its own way.” She raised her brows. “Are you sure you wish to enter the fray?”

  It was foolish in the extreme. Possibly hopeless. But she thought of going back to her old life, without him. Without his smile, and his charming help and his laugh and his stories and his unwavering belief in her. She thought of donning her mask again and soldiering on, alone, pretending she didn’t need him.

  “Yes.”

  Amelia nodded. “Well. If you are going to enter a fight like that, then we’d better start planning now, how you are going to win.”

  Chapter 21

  My hope is to shine a light on the dark corners where such evil grows. To encourage you, dear reader, to cast it out of your own heart. Remember, when you are tempted to one small misdeed, to hold yourself above your fellow man, where such a step on a dark path might lead you.

  --from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  * * *

  Several days later, Hestia stood before the doorway in Hanover Square. She breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Again. She was going into battle. Another sort of fight altogether, just as Amelia had said, but definitely a battle. Before she could lose her nerve, she raised her hand and knocked.

  “Hestia Wright to see Lady Woodbury,” she told the butler. “On a matter of some urgency.”

  Judging by the increased stiffness of his spine, the man had heard her name before. And the small, nervous glance he darted toward the parlor on the right told her that he hadn’t heard it bandied about the servant’s hall, either.

  She took pity on him.

  “I admit, my own cause would be better served if you would just announce me like any other caller. But if you are fearful of a reprimand, I will storm in unannounced while you flutter helplessly.”

  The butler didn’t crack a smile, but she saw the twinkle in his eye. “I believe I will weather the storm of your call, madam. If you will stay here, I will inform my lady of your arrival.”

  He left the door cracked though, so she did not remain standing outside. She followed in his footsteps and once he announced her name, she stepped around him into the parlor.

  The Marchioness of Woodbury abruptly stood, abandoning a small desk covered in correspondence. She shot her butler a hard look. “Thank you, that will be all, Sommes.” The servant bowed and retreated, closing the door.

  Stoneacre’s mother stood very still and glared at her.

  Hestia waited.

  “I didn’t expect you to arrive so soon,” the marchioness said, her brow raised and her tone laced with scorn.

  “I’m surprised you expected me at all.”

  Lady Woodbury waved a hand toward her desk. “My morning letters are full of accounts of you and my son in Bath. Laden with descriptions of the spectacle he made of himself in the Pump Room. Over you.” She tossed her head. “I knew you would come, eventually.”

  “I fear your friends exaggerate, my lady. We were in the Pump Room, but there was no spectacle.”

  “The sight of a decent man escorting you in public is spectacle enough. Too much, when it comes to my son. Which, no doubt, leads us to why you are here.” She took a step away from the desk. “I do not keep a large amount of money about the house, but I will talk to my husband and he will pay you what you require.”

  “Pay me?” Hestia tilted her head. “Blackmail? Is that why you think I am here?”

  “Why else?”

  Sighing, Hestia removed her gloves. She still had not been invited to sit. “I assure you, I have more than enough of my own money, my lady. I don’t need yours, your husband’s, or your son’s, for that matter. I am not here to blackmail your family. I am here beca
use I care for your son.”

  Lady Woodbury lifted her chin. “Even worse.”

  “Is it?” Hestia asked quietly. “Is it worse that I love him? You would prefer that I meant to harm him?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you will harm him.” Her jaw tight, she asked, “Has he offered for you?”

  “No. I went away before he could have the chance to do so. I came here to speak with you.”

  The marchioness collapsed into a nearby chair. “Oh, thank heavens.” She covered her eyes with a hand for a moment, then sat up and stared at Hestia with urgency. “You must not allow him to do it—and you must not accept him.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not!”

  “I would like to hear your reasons.”

  “Do you wish to be the ruin of him? You are a whore!”

  “I was a whore, yes. It was a choice I made when it became clear that my family and friends had abandoned me. That Society would never look at me in any other way, no matter what I did. I chose to live, rather than die. To thrive rather than suffer forever for one tragically stupid mistake.” She met the woman’s gaze directly. “I had already suffered enough.” She took the liberty to perch on the edge of a chair. “It was long ago.”

  “It doesn’t matter that it was long ago. You lie with men for money.”

  “I did, although honestly, from the beginning my notoriety saved me from having to take many clients, or from taking any at all that could not or would not treat me with the utmost respect and generosity. Do you know,” she mused, “that there were many times when, for the men, it was not about physical congress at all? Often they merely wanted a pretty woman on their arm. Or the masculine thrill of having been the one to win a woman that other men wanted. Sometimes, they only wished to talk, to spend time with someone who would listen. But yes, sometimes it was just about the bedsport.” She gave the woman a malicious grin. “And I was good at that, too.”

  “You are shameless,” the marchioness spat.

  “Generally, yes,” Hestia agreed. “But tell me honestly, my lady. Was your match with Lord Woodbury a romantic one? Or was it arranged by your families for their mutual benefit?”

  The woman’s mouth tightened.

  “I see. So, you’ve spent your life lying with one man. For money. And social standing. And vast estates. And pretty gowns.” She lifted a shoulder.

  “I care for my husband.”

  “I’m sure he returns your regard. And yet, has he kept a mistress? So many aristocratic men do. I haven’t actually asked Stoneacre, but I’d be surprised if he hasn’t, at some time.” She shrugged. “Being on the other end of the transaction hasn’t made them unmarriageable, has it?”

  The lady abandoned that argument and attacked with another. “It will be a scandal. Everyone will whisper about it. My son will be mocked in all of the broad sheets.”

  Hestia nodded. “That is likely. I’ve been featured in the scandal sheets, on and off, for years. It occasionally stings, but they’ve yet to draw blood.”

  “His friends will laugh at him!”

  “Friends might laugh with him. The others won’t be missed.”

  “He’ll be ostracized!”

  “Lady Woodbury, though you have not acknowledged me, I have attended many of the same events that you have, over the Seasons. I am welcome at court. I am received at Carlton House. Some of the highest members of the ton not only are kind to me, but they also support my work.” Her mouth twitched. “Granted, there are high sticklers who will never receive me. Some enjoy snubbing me, I daresay. But as I said, they are not missed.”

  The marchioness’s lip curled. “You don’t have any idea what my son will miss.”

  Hestia cast a kind look at the other woman. “What is your son’s favorite color, my lady?”

  “What?” Lady Woodbury frowned. “What has that to do with anything?”

  “It’s the blue of a robin’s egg. Do you know his favorite flower?”

  The marchioness rolled her eyes. “He’s a man. An earl. I’m sure he doesn’t care enough about—”

  “Lilacs. He says they remind him of home. Do you know what his favorite childhood toy was?”

  The lady smiled triumphantly. “He was mad for books and his pony. He didn’t play with childish things.”

  “He adored the two-masted schooner he received on his birthday, and loved sailing it in the lake.”

  Lady Woodbury looked startled. “Oh, yes . . .” She shook herself. “None of this has any significance,” she said coldly.

  “It does. Your son enjoys the work he does for the Privy Council, but I believe he wants more, now. He deserves to have someone in his life with whom he shares a rapport. Someone he can talk with, listen to and share his life with. Believe me, I fought against our developing feelings, but they are real and true and they would not be denied. We care for each other, my lady—and he deserves to have that. He shouldn’t have to settle for a young girl who shares nothing in common and merely wants him for his title and status.”

  Lady Woodbury sniffed. “Well, if you know so much of my son, perhaps you’ll know that he will not care to lose his family over this matter.”

  Hestia stilled. “Is that a real threat, my lady?”

  “It is, if it must be.”

  She sighed. “That is what I feared—and it is truly a shame.” Her brows lowered. “I find it offensive, even, that you would turn your back on your son for making a decision you do not agree with. Especially as he clearly did not do the same to your husband. He did not abandon his father—not even when your husband proved to be so catastrophically wrong.”

  The marchioness paled. “Stoneacre . . . told you?”

  “He did. And make no mistake—this is not a threat. I will never tell a soul about it.”

  The woman looked as if she wanted to believe her.

  “Just as I will never tell Stoneacre our secret.”

  The color rushed back into the woman’s face. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Yes. You do.”

  Lady Woodbury merely clutched the arms of her chair with white-knuckled fingers.

  “I’ve seen it worrying at you every moment since I walked in.”

  “The notion is ridiculous. I do not even know you.”

  “But you knew my mother,” Hestia said quietly. “Did you think that I would not remember?”

  The lady sat frozen, not responding.

  “You were her closest friend, her confidant. I was young, but I remember your visits well. How many hours did I sit, playing with my dolls at your feet, while the two of you shared childhood memories and made plans for the future?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Lady Woodbury whispered. “That girl . . . that girl died, swept off by a sudden illness.”

  “That’s what they told people, isn’t it? But you knew.” She sighed. “You knew I’d made a horrendous mistake in judgment. I believed in Captain Wilson’s love for me. I believed I loved him. I was a young, headstrong fool and I defied my parents and ran off with him.” She drew a deep breath. “You knew I was little more than a child. Did you know I was fooled? Tricked into a sham marriage and turned over to Marstoke on my wedding night? Did you know I was raped? Beaten? Held captive? You did, because my mother told you everything—and years later, she wrote to me. She told me how she felt, how difficult it was for her, when I finally got away and wrote to her, asking for help, asking to come home. How she wanted to come to me, fetch me home, but my father was adamantly against it and her friends counseled that she not do so.”

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. “You knew about that, too, because you were one of the people whispering in her ear, telling her to turn me away. To heed my father’s anger. You told her I would never be accepted in Society. That I would drag my family down. You told her that it was easier to abandon me than to expose the lie they’d told.”

  Lady Woodbury said nothi
ng, merely sat, still clutching the chair and staring straight ahead.

  “Do not fear. I am not going to tell Stoneacre. Not ever. Not even if you threaten to cut him if we remain together.” She sighed. “He would be angry for my sake and disappointed in you. And frankly, he’s suffered enough disappointment at your family’s hands.”

  The lady made a sound of protest. She looked furious.

  Hestia only shook her head. “I will tell you, my lady, that it hurts to be estranged from one’s family. It tore me asunder that I couldn’t be with my mother in her final days.” The corner of her mouth curled. “I couldn’t care less for the scorn of most people, but it pains me when I walk into a room and my cousin, who holds my father’s title now, looks through me as if I were invisible. We grew up together. I taught him to fish. I was there when he was thrown from his first pony. He and I danced my first waltz together. But I am dead to him, and it is a lance through my heart whenever we meet.”

  She stood. “I don’t want that for Stoneacre. I love him, so deeply. I don’t think it’s possible to know him and not love him, actually.” A smile crossed her face just at the thought. “He’s a fine, strong, wonderful man. Kindness just comes naturally to him. He has the clearest vision of anyone I’ve ever known. He looks straight past the facades that people throw up and celebrates their hidden strengths.”

  She sighed. “I’m not entirely certain he will ask for my hand, but if he does, I will give it to him. And I urge you not to disavow him, but to get to know him instead. The real man, not the one you wish him to be.”

  She walked to the door and opened it a crack. “I want you to know, Lady Woodbury, that if Stoneacre is forced to make a choice between us, it won’t be because of me.”

  With a nod, she turned and walked out.

  Chapter 22

  I urge you instead, to choose light over darkness. Care for yourself and for all the others in your sphere. Bring hope and happiness in your wake instead of fear and pain. If even one of you, gentle readers, takes this lesson to heart, then I will be reconciled to the exposure of my secrets and count my time well spent.