The Wolfe's Mate

by Paula Marshall

  ‘Excellent,’ said Madame. ‘Mr Wolfe grew a trifle perturbed when you were so late in returning. He thought that you might have met with some mischance, so I suggested that he look for you in the library although I scarcely thought that you were in any danger there. He must have missed you on the way back.’

  Susanna did not correct her. Secretly she was shocked at how greatly her ability to deceive had grown since she had met Ben Wolfe. His many naughtinesses must be catching, she decided.

  Madame showed no sign that she thought that Susanna might not be telling the absolute truth. Indeed, when Ben returned she said brightly, ‘You see, sir, your agitation over Miss Beverly’s late return was unwarranted. Here she is, quite unruffled.’

  Ben raised his thick eyebrows. ‘Agitated? I was scarcely that. In any case, I never reached the library. I met an old friend and we had a most fruitful discussion. At least, I found it so. We were so long that I decided to return immediately, thinking that Miss Beverly might well be with you again by now. I see that I was right.’

  Well, manhandling George was one way of having a fruitful discussion—on Mr Wolfe’s terms! Susanna supposed. She wondered what having an unfruitful one with him might entail! George left dead on the floor, perhaps.

  Aloud she said, ‘Your care for me is exemplary, Mr Wolfe. I thank you for it.’

  By the twitch of his lips Susanna knew that he had taken her double meaning.

  ‘Not at all, Miss Beverly. I am always happy to be of service. I am not a dancing man, but I would be honoured to take the floor with you this evening—if you would so oblige me.’

  His bow as he said this was a deep one. Susanna found herself trembling as he straightened up and she met his magnetic gaze. She had read of Dr Mesmer and his experiments, that it was possible to bend someone to your will by the power of that will. She could well believe that Ben Wolfe possessed that power.

  It was the only explanation which she could find for the extraordinary effect which he had on her. Her mouth opened slightly, she licked her lips and swayed forward. She had a hard task preventing herself from stammering like a green girl at her first ball.

  At the back of her mind was the memory of the summary manner in which he had treated that cur, George Darlington. Far from being horrified at his disposal of George, she had felt excited. Knights of old protected their ladies, she knew, but she was scarcely Ben Wolfe’s lady. All the same it was comforting that someone cared enough about her to punish anyone who was mistreating her.

  On the other hand, even as Ben led her on to the floor, she was remembering the harsh way in which he had spoken of Lord Babbacombe’s family when he had been under the impression that she was Amelia—as well as his summary kidnapping of her. Perhaps there was more to his treatment of George than met the eye.

  For a big man who claimed that he did not care for dancing, he danced surprisingly well, being very light on his feet as she had already noticed at the Leominster’s ball. What disconcerted Susanna—and although she did not know it, Ben also—was that, as they touched, something like Dr Mesmer’s famed electric response in frogs ran through them. That it was to do with Ben alone was made apparent by the fact that no other man’s touch had ever brought about the same response.

  But I am not a frog, Susanna thought wildly, so what can it mean? She tried not to catch Ben’s eye as they moved through the stately parading of the dance, because if she did, that, too, possessed the power to excite her. And when they met, face to face, she had the oddest and most dreadful impression that all her clothes had fallen off. And if that was not bad enough, she found herself wondering what Ben Wolfe might look like with his clothes gone.

  Of all improper thoughts for a respectable young lady to have! She would not have found any consolation in knowing that the totally unrespectable Mr Wolfe was having similar ones about her.

  Unknowingly, her eyes dilated and shone. Her mouth opened itself slightly and the tip of a small pink tongue peeped out—a sight which drove Ben Wolfe mad. Like Susanna, he asked what was happening to him. Not because he was inexperienced in the ways of sex, but because, although he had always been kind to the women he was involved with, he had never felt anything for them such as he was beginning to feel for Susanna.

  Mixed with an intense desire to have her in his arms or in his bed, was an equally intense desire to protect her. She had been right to see murder in his eye when he had attacked George. It had taken him all his willpower not to beat the wretch senseless for daring to distress her. He had no idea how to respond to such strange and new emotions. Particularly when they were so contrary.

  Neither Ben nor Susanna had ever found dancing so exciting before. It certainly added spice to an otherwise rather formalised ritual. Susanna had heard that no less a person than Lord Byron had founded waltzing immoral. What was surprising was that she felt immoral performing the quadrille—his lordship had never gone so far as to suggest that!

  As if that was not enough, further spice was added to an already interesting evening immediately after the dance was over. Ben had scarcely had time to escort Susanna back to her place beside Madame when he was accosted by a large middle-aged gentleman wearing a star on his breast.

  ‘Lord Babbacombe,’ whispered Madame to Susanna. ‘Lord Darlington’s father. Whatever can he want with Mr Wolfe?’

  To pick a quarrel with him, apparently, for he said in a high, angry voice. ‘A word with you, Wolfe, I will not call you sir. I wonder that Lord Exford has invited you to pollute his home. He cannot know of your dubious reputation or he would not allow you to cross his threshold. I understand that you have had the impudence to make yourself obnoxious to my son. Let me inform you that, if I have my way, every decent house in London will be closed to you.’

  By the time that he had finished speaking he was scarlet in the face. The object of his anger remained impassive. Ben’s face had never before looked quite so carved out of granite.

  ‘I am here, as you are, I suppose, as a friend of Lord Exford, and I must inform you that, if your son conducts himself in good society as though his true home is a nighthouse in the Seven Dials rather than a gentleman’s mansion, I shall be as obnoxious to him as I please whenever I find him misbehaving. Although I have to say that his deplorable conduct does not surprise me for I have always found “like father, like son” to be a useful maxim in the conduct of life—and of business.’

  Lord Babbacombe was now, to Susanna’s fascination, turning purple. ‘Oh, business,’ he snarled. ‘Hardly the stuff of conversation in the company of gentlemen. Well, never say that I did not warn you what your fate might be. And, speaking of fathers and sons, your own father’s conduct would scarcely bare inspection.’

  Ben’s expression fascinated Susanna. It never altered. He was as calm as Lord Babbacombe was noisy, and his calm did not desert him now.

  ‘I trust that you have finished,’ he said politely, ‘since I came here to enjoy myself, not to listen to sermons from stupid old gentlemen. And as to business, I can understand your distaste for it, since you have been so unsuccessful in the practice of it. I bid you good evening, m’lord, in the hope that another day may find you in a better temper and your son likewise.’

  He bowed and turned back to Madame and Susanna. Lord Babbacombe, now gobbling like a turkey, had no alternative but to accept the insults put upon him, or challenge Ben to a duel. As he had neither the mind nor the courage to do the latter he was left in a quandary.

  What he would have liked to do was to order his footman to give Ben a beating, and throw him out of Exford House, but that being impossible, he turned on his heel and left, silently promising himself to take all the steps necessary to drive Ben Wolfe out of society.

  Madame said gently, ‘Was that wise Mr Wolfe? Lord Babbacombe is a power in London society.’

  ‘So much the worse for London society, then,’ returned Ben, his face implacable. ‘My only regret is that you and Miss Beverly—to say nothing of several spectators—were compe
lled to listen to such an ill-tempered to-do. I hope, Miss Beverly, that my plain speaking will not result in you refusing to stand up with me in the next dance.’

  ‘Oh, I am well acquainted with your plain speaking, Mr Wolfe, and I am in the best position to know that your remarks concerning Lord Darlington were no worse than he deserved.’ She felt, rather than saw, that Madame was intrigued by her forthright defence of Ben, but had decided that, for once, she might indulge in a little plain speaking of her own.

  ‘And I shall certainly agree to stand up with you in the next dance,’ she added.

  Susanna surprised even herself by her behaviour. On the face of it she should have been shocked but, after his failed kidnapping of her, the rest of Ben Wolfe’s conduct seemed to her to be small beer at the very least.

  Which was a piece of internal vulgarity she had better keep to herself!

  ‘I wonder that you dare commit yourself to such a bad hat as I am, Miss Beverly,’ said Ben with a wry smile, ‘knowing, as you do, the very worst of what I am capable of performing. Who knows what might happen next?’

  ‘Surely, sir, the evening can hold no more shocks for me, either verbal or otherwise,’ she riposted.

  But she was wrong. Ben had taken her hand and they stood side by side waiting for an opposite couple to appear so that the dance might begin. A tall gentleman with one of Lord Exford’s sisters on his arm arrived to take his place. He was so busy talking to her that he did not turn to face Ben and Susanna until the very moment that the music began and it was too late for Susanna to react to his sudden appearance.

  Ben Wolfe felt her tremble, but did not know that what had disturbed Susanna was the arrival of the latecomer.

  He was Francis Sylvester, whom she had last seen the night before he had left her at the altar.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Susanna,’ said Francis agitatedly as he passed her in the dance, ‘can it possibly be you?’

  As he ought to have known she could not answer him immediately for the dance had rapidly returned her to Ben’s side. Nor, when they were next face to face again, hands held high, did he allow her to speak, bursting out instead with, ‘I had heard that you had left your parents’ house and were no longer in society.’

  She barely had time to retort, ‘Then you were wrongly informed,’ before she was back with Ben, who hissed at her,

  ‘Who the devil is that fellow who is pestering you each time you pass him?’

  Fortunately the dance took her away from him, too. And who gave him leave to question her so summarily? Or Francis, either, for that matter. Both men had glared at her as though she had offended them. She decided to speak to neither of them, treading through the patterns of the dance in silence.

  So when Francis asked her as they crossed again, ‘Whose party are you with, Susanna, to whom I may pay my respects when the dance is over?’ she said nothing, turning her head away from him before rejoining Ben—who demanded of her exasperatedly,

  ‘Is that fellow still troubling you?’

  She didn’t answer him either—which was all that they both deserved, seeing that Francis had jilted her, and Ben had kidnapped her, neither of which acts could possibly be described as gentlemanly. Her temper wasn’t helped by her noticing that both men were now scowling blackly at one another whenever they crossed.

  ‘What in the world are you doing with him?’ Francis snorted at her. ‘Don’t you know how dubious his reputation is?’

  Susanna could not prevent herself from riposting, ‘No more than mine was and is, Francis, after you had finished with me.’

  That should have finished him but, judging by his wounded expression, hadn’t, for when he next twirled her around he came out with, ‘I never intended that, you know.’

  ‘Then what did you intend?’ she shot back at him before moving on to Ben, who muttered at her,

  ‘Is he still importuning you? Do you want me to deal with him also, when the dance is over?’

  Susanna nearly came out with, ‘Heaven forfend’, murmuring instead, ‘Best not, he’s Lord Sylvester.’

  This made matters worse, for Ben immediately hissed at her, ‘The swine who jilted you, eh? I will deal with him as he deserves.’

  ‘Oh, not that,’ she said. ‘What little good reputation we still possess would be quite destroyed, and having escaped hanging for George, you would swing for Francis instead. Neither of them are worth it and I should have to retire to a nunnery to escape public obloquy.’

  Fortunately Ben’s sense of humour revived itself when he saw that she was smiling as she spoke. ‘True,’ he said, his lips twitching again and his harsh face lightening a little. ‘I admit that I am being somewhat extreme, but he’s exactly the kind of soft fool I most dislike.’

  Susanna refrained from pointing out to him that most of the men in the room were soft fools if you compared them with Mr Ben Wolfe, but that didn’t justify him threatening them all with violent death as a consequence. She also reflected that, until she had met him, her life had been conducted after a fashion which could only be described as dull and boring, whereas now even attending a ball at Exford House had become almost dangerously exciting!

  There was no time for further talk with him, or with Francis either, who next had the impudence to ask, ‘Are you married, Susanna? I trust that that great oaf, Ben Wolfe, is not your husband if you are.’

  ‘No business of yours if he is,’ she told him briskly, over her shoulder, as she left him for the last time.

  The dance over, Ben seized her arm proprietorially and virtually dragged her over to where Madame was sitting, but he didn’t succeed in throwing Francis off the scent. He doggedly followed them, bowing to Madame and ostentatiously avoiding any eye contact with Ben who had been compelled to release Susanna once she was under Madame’s wing again.

  Francis bowed to them all. He was, Susanna noticed, as superbly turned out as he had been when he had been her supposedly faithful suitor. Yet Ben was right: his face was soft, something which she had not noticed when she had been a green girl. His public manners, however, were still superb.

  ‘We met in Paris, I believe, Madame la Comtesse,’ he said, ‘at a reception given by M. de Talleyrand. I am happy to renew your acquaintance, and would wish to renew that of Miss Beverly—if she is still Miss Beverly, that is.’

  Madame’s manners were, as always, impeccable. ‘Lord Sylvester,’ she acknowledged. ‘Yes, I remember the occasion. And Miss Beverly is not married, but I am not sure whether she will wish to renew her acquaintance with you. She must speak for herself.’

  ‘Then I must beg of her that she will allow me to speak privately to her—for a few moments only,’ he said hastily, ‘for I have to inform her of something meant for her ears alone.’

  Susanna looked away from him. ‘This comes a trifle late, m’lord, if it is an explanation of your behaviour of four years ago.’ Or an apology, she was going to add, but he did not allow her to finish, saying,

  ‘I know that I did you a great wrong, but I wish to remedy that. I ask you to allow me to speak to you in memory of what we once were to one another.’

  She could almost feel Ben Wolfe’s hard eyes on her, willing her to refuse him, but that very fact compelled her to accede to Francis Sylvester’s wishes. To neither of them would she give the right to determine her conduct. She would speak to Francis of her free will, and that same free will would determine the nature of her reply to him. Her decisions would be her own.

  ‘Very well, Lord Sylvester,’ she said, rising. ‘I will allow you to address me privately, but for a few moments only, and on the understanding that you will make no attempt to detain, or control me, physically.’

  ‘He’d better not,’ growled Ben under his breath, earning himself a sharp tap of her fan from Madame who was watching with interest the play of emotion on his usually impassive face.

  Lord Sylvester held out his hand. Susanna shook her head as she joined him, and, not touching, they walked out of the Grand Sal
on and into the self-same anteroom into which George had earlier dragged her.

  He turned to face her, indicating that he wished her to sit while he spoke to her. Susanna shook her head again. ‘I would prefer to remain standing,’ she said, as coolly as she could.

  Francis inclined his handsome blond head. His looks were the exact opposite of those of Ben Wolfe—but they had lost the power to attract Susanna.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, his voice melancholy. ‘I wish to tell you how sorry I am that I behaved to you as I did four years ago. But I had no alternative. I was heavily in debt, but the moneylenders, knowing of our marriage, were holding off. And then, two days before the wedding your guardian, Mr Samuel Mitchell, came to me and told me that, contrary to public belief, you were not an heiress. That he had discovered that your father had left you nothing, and that consequently I was right up the River Tick again. That the moneylenders had word of this and there was a writ out against me, consigning me to the Marshalsea since I would now be unable to pay my debts.

  ‘Consequently, to escape imprisonment I would have to fly the country at once. He said that he would help me on condition that I said nothing of this, for he would put matters right with you and ensure that you did not suffer as a consequence of your marriage failing. He told me what to say in my letter to you, and I set sail for the Continent on the following day. You may judge of my surprise when I heard not long ago that you had left your home soon after we should have married.’

  Susanna, shocked by this surprising news, stared blankly at him. Could Francis possibly be speaking the truth? Had her stepfather been playing a double game with her? And if so, why? She remembered that, immediately after Francis Sylvester’s rejection of her Samuel Mitchell had informed her that he had known since her father’s death that he had died penniless and had deliberately kept the truth from her until Francis’s dereliction had made that impossible.

  Could she trust no one? Was everyone lying to her? Samuel Mitchell, Ben Wolfe and now Francis Sylvester. The room swung about her. She put out a hand to grasp the back of an armchair in order to steady herself.