A Woman of Virtue

by Liz Carlyle

  Just then, the sound of the clock at St. James’s Palace carried on the breeze. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed, seizing the opportunity to jerk to her feet. “Is it one already? How time does fly. Mr. Rowland, I fear I must abandon you, or Cook shall never forgive me!”

  Smoothly, Edmund stood, but Jed hastened forward to help her remount. As they rode back along the edge of Park Lane, Cecilia turned around in her saddle. Edmund was strolling toward a barouche which had just rolled down Park Lane.

  ———

  Along the Thames, Lord Delacourt and Chief Inspector de Rohan spent another futile hour interviewing Mr. Pratt and the girl named Nell. Following that, de Rohan, David, and the dog—Lucifer, the wicked-looking beast was aptly called—went prowling up and down the streets, knocking on the door of every shop and tavern within five hundred yards of the Prospect. Universally cagey-eyed and reticent, the denizens of the East End would admit to knowing little more than the time of day.

  Unfortunately, David got the feeling that they were telling the truth. Certainly, no one piped up to say they’d seen a dead woman in a red dress being dragged out of a clearly numbered hackney coach by two easily identifiable thugs—which was what David had naïvely hoped to hear.

  But as de Rohan pointed out, the murderer could more easily have brought the corpse up by boat through the Limehouse Reach, or even down by the Upper Pool. In short, from anywhere. Moreover, he could have been anyone—anyone who knew how to tie a seaman’s knot. Which was most everyone south of Whitechapel Road. Deeply, Delacourt sighed, his admiration for de Rohan’s perseverance growing with every passing minute.

  At noon, de Rohan tightly informed him that he had other business to attend. Two Portuguese smugglers had been taken up the day before, and his presence was required before the magistrate at a two o’clock hearing. David was almost relieved. Briskly, he informed de Rohan of his plans for Kitty, dropped him and his dog off near Wapping New Stairs, and then ordered his coachman home. Chilled to the bone and dull-witted from lack of sleep, he found himself unable to make sense out of anything they’d heard.

  In Curzon Street, Kemble was nowhere to be found, so David stripped off his clothes, washed and redressed, then went downstairs, automatically sliding into his usual chair for his usual luncheon. So lost in thought and sleeplessness was he, David did not immediately notice that his usual beefsteak had not been promptly placed before him.

  Quietly, a footman by the doorway cleared his throat, and Delacourt became aware of a strange sort of tension in the room. He focused his bleary gaze upon the table and, in mute amazement, stared at the horrific visage which looked back at him, its bright black eyes glinting ominously.

  The little fellow sat squarely upon his table, right where Delacourt’s grilled beefsteak ought to have been. His cheeks were puffed out and painted a bright shade of grassy green, and he wore nothing but a little yellow towel hitched about his nether regions like some sort of nappy. Slowly, Delacourt’s eyes caught on the row of similar—albeit far less appalling—porcelain ornaments which lined the top of his dining-room sideboard.

  Suspicion bloomed.

  “Kemble!” he bellowed.

  At once, a brace of footmen leapt from the shadows, and it took but a moment for the valet to be hauled into the dining room. “What the devil is this?” Delacourt demanded, pointing at his afternoon intruder.

  Out came the wrist. “Maaarvelous, isn’t he?” the valet simpered. “I just knew you’d be thrilled.”

  “Scared witless, more like,” muttered Delacourt. Impatiently, he motioned for his coffee and his steak, shoving back the porcelain figurine with his other hand. “Honestly, Kemble, that’s the ugliest damn thing I ever laid eyes on. I sincerely hope you did not pay good money for a squat, green, half-naked—”

  With a great huff, Kemble leaned forward and snatched the thing off the tablecloth. “Don’t blame me!” he hotly began. “You’ll recall I prefer Ch’morning. But nooo! You wanted Ming, and you wanted green.” He settled the figurine’s strangely carved base gently atop his forearm and thrust it at him. “So here is your green Ming!”

  “Good God, you’re going to ming and ching me straight to Bedlam!” said David, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. “What the hell is it, anyway?”

  “It’s a roof tile.”

  “A roof tile?” sputtered Delacourt, shoving back his plate distastefully. “I send you off to buy porcelain—little Chinese dancing girls, vases and bowls, that sort of thing—and you bring me back a bloody roof tile? With a—a damned oriental leprechaun standing on it?”

  “I have some vases,” insisted Kemble indignantly. He jerked his head toward the sideboard. “And two bowls. But you said not one word about a Chinese dancing girl! Besides, these roof tiles are all the rage—”

  “Oh, yes!” exclaimed Delacourt melodramatically, throwing his arms open wide. “All the rage! Just like those damned dreary waistcoats you’ve been forcing me to wear.”

  Lovingly, Kemble stroked the green man’s shiny pate. “These are quite rare,” he huffed. “One mounts them over one’s door to ward off evil spirits.”

  “Yes, and it would bloody well work, too,” muttered Delacourt, sipping at his coffee. “I wouldn’t go near the damned thing in a drunken stupor.”

  “Upon my word, you’re an ungrateful wretch!” Hugging the porcelain to his chest, Kemble looked truly offended. “And after I ventured into St. Giles in the fog this morning! Have you any notion how dangerous that is? I risked life and limb—perhaps even worse—merely because you want to impress your way into some woman’s bed—and do not try to deny that that is precisely what you’re about here. And now you want to play the discerning connoisseur? As if you could tell Ming from Meissen!”

  “Oh, hell!” interrupted Delacourt, setting down his coffee cup with an awful clatter. “Box up the lot of ‘em, and call my carriage.”

  Chapter Ten

  In Which Lady Walrafen Receives a Trojan Horse

  To anyone who knew Lady Walrafen well, and this certainly included her staff, her ladyship’s restless unease and monosyllabic conversation that afternoon would have been construed as a sign of a troubled mind. Under normal circumstances, there was nothing very arcane about their mistress. Lady Walrafen said what she meant, meant what she said, and, for the most part, did it with a breezy, blithe attitude.

  But today, she was neither breezy nor blithe. In fact, for the better part of the afternoon, she had been pacing up and down the length of her drawing room, chewing first on her left thumbnail, then on her right, and muttering to herself. Eventually, however, Cecilia paused long enough to give the vague instruction that her carriage and her lady’s maid were to be made ready to leave within the hour.

  Thus, when Lord Delacourt dropped the knocker at Number Three Park Crescent, he was received by Shaw with a degree of hesitation. The still-wheezing servant stared past his shoulder to the beribboned wooden crate two footmen were unstrapping from David’s carriage.

  “Perhaps I ought to see if she is at home first?” the butler suggested delicately.

  “Be so good as to inquire,” said David, standing firm. “But if she is not, I shall simply leave this for her.”

  Inwardly, he almost hoped she wasn’t at home. It seemed suddenly more prudent to abandon his peace offering on the steps and flee, since he still didn’t know what the devil to say.

  But she was at home. And she did receive him, albeit with a measure of restraint. Or was it uncertainty? Delacourt had little experience with females who were either. His footmen set down the crate in front of her brocade settee and withdrew, drawing the door shut behind them.

  “A gift,” David muttered, waving awkwardly toward it. “By way of an apology.”

  Cecilia’s delicate brows flew aloft at that. “An apology?” she said, her voice bemused. “I did not realize that an apology was in order under such circumstances.” She managed what looked like a weak grin.

  Delacourt forced himself t
o smile back. Oh, God. She was so beautiful, more so today than the day before, and he had the uneasy suspicion that with Cecilia, it would always be so. This afternoon, she wore a day dress of heavy teal-blue silk. The neckline fell just below her collarbone, the sleeves and the waist cut snugly in the latest fashion, emphasizing the sweet flare of her hips.

  Cecilia stared down at the crate, resting her hand along one of the armchairs. In the privacy of her home, she wore no gloves, and the dark cuff fell slightly below her wrist, trailing a ruffle of ivory lace across the back of her hand. Her fingers were slender and capable, and he wondered what it would be like to stretch out across her bed in the afternoon light and watch Cecilia make love to him with them. How he would love to feel her palms go skimming down his chest, and further still, until her fingers tangled in the curls at the base of his manhood.

  Atop the armchair, she let her hand slide restlessly over the curving back, and in his mind, he saw her fingers wrapped around his rigid cock, caressing him, then guiding him toward—

  “David?” He realized Cecilia was looking at him very curiously. “You wished to apologize for—?”

  David felt heat flood his face. Good Lord. He couldn’t remember ever having blushed in the whole of his life. Uneasily, he stepped a little further behind the chair, very much afraid that a little discretion was in order. It would not do for her to glance down and think him some sort of rutting boar—even if he were.

  He made another uncertain gesture with his hand. “The gift is in recompense for my having broken your Chinese girl,” he explained awkwardly. Then he dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Really, Cecilia... I cannot think what came over me last night.”

  Cecilia studied him for a moment. “You have regrets?”

  At that, he laughed bitterly. “Darling, my regrets are legion. But the only thing I regret about last night is losing my temper. In truth, it shook me.”

  Cecilia let her eyes drift over his face, her gaze catching on his mouth. “I confess to having been a little shaken myself.”

  Unable to restrain himself, he came away from the chair and strode toward her. He wanted so much to draw her into his arms, to share with her not just the ugliness inside him but the beauty which she had brought into his heart. And yet, he could not find the words. And even if he could, it was entirely possible she would not wish to hear them.

  So, instead, he merely lifted his hand and stroked the back of it across her cheek. “Cecilia, my dear, I think we have much to talk about. Last night was... like a dream to me.”

  As if she could read his mind, Cecilia slid her arms about his waist. “We seem to have gotten over our dislike of one another rather thoroughly.”

  “Oh, Cecilia,” he said softly. “It is certainly not dislike which I feel for you.”

  “What do you feel, David?” she quietly responded, tearing her gaze from his and pressing her cheek against the lapel of his coat. “I should like you to be honest with me. Please.”

  Uncertainly, David stared down at her. What did she wish to hear? He felt as if he were perched upon an icy mountainside and that a deep, unfathomable chasm lay at the bottom. He remembered his resolution not to push her; not to press for anything she wasn’t ready to give.

  “I respect you,” he finally answered. “Too much to do or say anything which might cause you a moment’s unease.”

  “Respect?” Cecilia pushed away and let her eyes drop half shut. “How very...reassuring.”

  Suddenly, David braced his hands on her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Then tell me,” he demanded, his voice hoarse. “Just say it, Cecilia. What is it that you expect of me? What would you have me do? You have only to name it.”

  Cecilia realized at once what he was asking: Did she mean to insist on marriage? Well, she’d not done so the first time, and she certainly would not do so now. Whatever he offered, it must be freely given, as she had given herself to him last night. And even if he should offer her marriage, such an invitation would require careful consideration.

  She was in love with him, yes. But she was not a fool. Any intimate relationship with David would still lack the one most essential element of true intimacy. His unwillingness to share of himself all but ensured it. David was too brooding, too quiet. And because of that, she would never be able to feel the closeness—that oneness of both body and soul—which she now understood she needed.

  Moreover, his even hinting that she might hold out some sort of expectation stung just a little. “I think you mistake me,” she said, drawing a little away from him. “I expect nothing.”

  David lessened his grip on her shoulders, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. “Forgive me, my dear,” he said, gently lowering his forehead to touch hers. “My choice of words was poor. Perhaps I implied... I mean, what I ought to say is—”

  Suddenly, David seemed to lose his legendary nerve. “Oh, dash it, Cecilia! I’m no good at this. I just think you’re splendid. Now, look here—why don’t you just open my gift?”

  Despite her frustration, Cecilia felt a flash of wry humor light her eyes. Oh, let him keep his secrets and offer her his bribes, if that was all he had to offer now. She loved him, and she would be patient. For a while.

  “Very well,” she relented, “but this had better not be a trained monkey with bells around its neck!”

  “A trained monkey?” David’s voice was arch. “Who the devil would give a woman such a ludicrous gift? Come, will you not have a look inside?”

  Carefully, David studied Cecilia’s face, still afraid she might refuse. He was taking the easy way out, and she knew it. He was plying her with gifts, because they were easier to give than words, just as he’d done with countless women before her—but for entirely different reasons. On this particular occasion, he was buying time, not affection. God help him, he was terrified. Terrified of losing her. And yet, he could not press her; indeed, he hardly knew what he could fairly offer her.

  At last, Cecilia surrendered and allowed herself to be led toward the settee. In a few moments, David had sliced off the ribbons, opened the crate, and persuaded Cecilia to begin unwrapping the vases and bowls.

  She seemed outwardly pleased, oohing and aahing as she gingerly lifted each to the light. He sat beside her, watching suspiciously. Was that a smile playing at the corner of her mouth? Or was she peeved? Most assuredly, she had every right to be. His behavior last night had been abominable, even for him. And today, when he so desperately needed his smooth words and persuasive ways, he was bumbling about like the veriest clod. Still, it seemed to David that Cecilia was softening ever so slightly. And then she reached into the bottom of the crate.

  Damn! Anxiously, David’s hand came out to stay hers. Leaning awkwardly over the crate as they both were, he realized that their faces were so near his breath was stirring the soft hair at her temple. Abruptly, he jerked away.

  “That last one,” he hastily insisted, “it is nothing, I assure you. A mere trifle. I rather doubt you will even want it.”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure that I shall,” averred Cecilia politely. “After all, your taste in Oriental porcelain is amazingly flawless—not to mention almost frighteningly extravagant.” Very carefully, she unwrapped the paper. And then, she sat perfectly silent for what seemed an eternity.

  “Oh,” she finally said, her voice breathless with amazement. “Oh, my!”

  Delacourt panicked. “I told you it was a trifle. And an ugly one at that.”

  “Oh, David!” Without looking at him, Cecilia lifted the figurine to cradle it in her lap, and slowly, almost lovingly, she ran the tip of her finger across the green man’s yellow towel. “I think he’s the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen!”

  His disappointment acute, Delacourt exhaled sharply. At once, Cecilia’s head jerked up, and her gaze locked with his. He was shocked to see that her eyes looked damp and gentle. “I first suspected you were just trying to placate me,” she whispered. “Yet you gave this a great deal of thought, did
you not? But how on earth did you find one so quickly?”

  Confused, David spread his hands open wide. “I begin to fear that I don’t know anything. Not about porcelain, certainly. And probably not about women.”

  Suddenly, Cecilia grinned and leapt to her feet. “Let’s take him upstairs and see how he fits.”

  Before David could grasp her meaning, he was being dragged through the hall and up the stairs toward her bedchamber. In the first-floor corridor, Shaw glared at David disapprovingly, and on the next landing, a house-maid paused in her sweeping, gape-mouthed.

  But resolutely clasping his hand in her right and clutching the statue to her bosom with her left arm, Cecilia made her way to the back of the second floor, into the shadows just beyond her bedchamber. There, in a deep, shell-shaped alcove lined with shelves, sat almost a dozen of the peculiar little figurines mounted on strange, arching bases—roof tiles, Kemble called them. Last night, blinded by lust and stumbling through the dimly lit corridor, David had failed to notice the collection. Well, truth be told, he never noticed such things. But he suddenly understood why Cecilia had believed him so thoughtful. And since God so rarely favored him, David was not about to look askance at his good fortune.

  But more important, it was hard not to take pleasure in her joy. Most women would have behaved a little coyly, but Cecilia was not most women. Lovingly, she put the green man down next to a red one, gave another sigh of delight, and began deftly rearranging the entire collection, muttering to herself as she went. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks deliciously pink, and David decided right then and there to have Kemble fetch another dozen of the ugly little devils, and damn the cost.

  Delicately, Delacourt cleared his throat. “My dear, I’m given to understand that these fellows are meant to keep wickedness from your door,” he said softly. “So perhaps you ought to mount him there.”