The Mistress Memoirs

by Jillian Hunter

  “Do I have an appointment with a dressmaker?” Georgette asked listlessly.

  “No. With me. I doubt the dressmaker will visit you again until you pay your bills. We agreed to work on your memoirs for an hour every afternoon before the rest of the house takes tea.”

  Georgette rolled across the bed in her floral silk wrapper. “I’m ill. I’ve caught Etta’s cold. I don’t want to think about sex when I have a runny nose. You write original plays. Can’t you make up a chapter or two until I feel better?”

  “About?” Kate asked, frowning in annoyance.

  “Make up something about Sir Colin, the more wicked the better.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the kind. Anyway, I thought we’d finished his chapters.”

  “I thought so, too, until he came thundering back into our lives like a crusader.”

  “Your life,” Kate said absently. “I had never met him until a week ago.”

  “Well, you both seem to know each other now,” Georgette said, blowing her nose on a lace-edged handkerchief.

  “Excuse me?”

  Georgette fell back miserably on her pillow. “I’ve seen him look at you, Kate, and I’ve caught you sneaking a look back. It’s all right. I understand the attraction all too well.”

  “Attraction?” Kate said, mortified that yet another person had accused her of what she was struggling to deny.

  “The housemaids melt into little puddles whenever they catch sight of him. He’s a spectacular wretch.”

  “Is he?”

  “Oh, Kate. As if you hadn’t noticed. You are not made of stone. I know how deeply you’ve been wounded, but it is no sin to have one’s feelings stirred by a man. I might admire him, too, if I didn’t know better.”

  “I have no comment.”

  “His mother was French, you know. I was told she had a trace of royal Bourbon blood, and that one did not ask whether it was a legitimate association or not. Still, a blend of Bourbon intrigue and Boscastle sexuality—who was I to resist?”

  “The Bourbons,” Kate said, her skin tingling as she imagined dashing aristocrats, French kings, generations of those who believed they had been born to reign.

  “Do you think I could die from this cold?” Georgette asked in alarm.

  “He draws women to him like dust to venetian blinds,” Kate said.

  “Yes, dear. I was his piece of fluff once, if you recall.”

  “The spinster sisters now pass the stables in their phaeton twice a day. One of them even took out a sketching pad when Sir Colin was in the pasture training that unschooled colt who gets the better of the stable boys.”

  “I think Squire Billingsley’s son fancies me,” Georgette murmured, her arm flung over her face. “Invite him to my funeral if I pass away unexpectedly. And Squire Winchester’s family.”

  “And I’m not sure, but I think I saw the widow who lives by the old granary riding through the woods above the house.”

  Georgette sat up. “I dislike that woman intensely. The little witch had her eye on Mason only a month after her husband died.”

  “Why are we discussing him at all?”

  “It’s all right, Kate,” Georgette said sagely. “I am your mistress, not your mother. Colin is a prime example of the masculine ideal, cad that he might have been during our youth. He’s more subdued than when I knew him, but, oh, to have loved him at his wildest.”

  Georgette paused, apparently lost in memories. Kate paused, too, to settle at the desk and pick up her pen. It was hard to imagine Colin any wilder than he was.

  “How would you describe him?” Georgette asked unexpectedly.

  Kate watched a blob of ink spread across the C she had just written. How would she describe him? Vital, decadent, a man a woman would desire to her detriment. What would Georgette think if she knew that Colin had kissed Kate in the salon today? Kate didn’t even know what to think herself.

  “These are your memoirs,” she said, shrugging.

  “Give me your impression.”

  “Handsome.”

  Georgette sighed. “Yes, yes. Deeper than that.”

  Kate wavered. “He does have lovely blue eyes.”

  “Yes,” Georgette said dryly. “So does his son. What else?”

  Kate stared across the room. “There’s something about his smile.”

  Georgette’s chin lifted. “What about it?”

  “It can be cruel and tender.”

  “It can? Hmmm. I must have forgotten.”

  “His mouth hardens when he talks about avenging his father. He looks quite forbidding. But when he’s teasing or—” Kate blinked, catching herself from making a confession that she would never live down.

  “Teasing who?” Georgette asked, intrigued.

  “The children, of course. Good heavens. What does it matter what your companion thinks of your past lover’s mouth?”

  “We were discussing his smile,” Georgette said slyly. “I suppose he does have a mouth designed for inflicting pleasures that could be described as cruel. I doubt that every woman’s first lover is her best.”

  “I doubt that most women have a list as long as yours to make the comparison.”

  “True.” Georgette sniffed. “That is why my story shall fetch a fortune on the market. If I can find a publisher who is more interested in making money off my past sins than ones he wishes to commit with me.”

  “You aren’t crying, are you?” Kate asked suddenly, staring back at Georgette in surprise.

  “Over Boscastle? Never again. It’s this blasted cold. Did I ever mention the time that he and I made—”

  Kate feigned a coughing fit, cutting off Georgette’s confession. “Oh, my. I think I’ve caught it, too.” Her face averted, she pretended to search the desk for a handkerchief. She could feel Georgette’s skeptical glance, and she coughed again for emphasis. Let Georgette think she’d lost her head. It was better than hearing her relive the details of Sir Colin’s carnal skills, the faithful recording of which hadn’t bothered Kate a bit until she had encountered the man.

  “He could be uncouth at times,” Georgette said, dabbing again at her nose. “So could I.”

  “Yes, madam. I do remember what you did to Lord Darlington’s hip.”

  “No one has ever explained the use of a cane as proudly as Darlington did in his club. When a man his age can boast he was injured in a woman’s bed, he incites more envy than censure from his peers.”

  “Be that as it may, we should perhaps leave a few episodes to the reader’s imagination. It wouldn’t hurt your reputation to confess that desperation drove you to your life of sin. Why don’t we describe how you worked as a milliner’s assistant when you were between lovers?”

  Georgette stared at her in exasperation. “You might be one of the few people in England who would pay to read about my unsuccessful attempts at collecting feathers for horrid little hats. I didn’t make enough to feed a sparrow from that affair. It was an indignity to my profession. Can you imagine any of the great harlots in history wasting their talents in menial labor? I’m fairly certain Caesar didn’t expect Cleopatra to clean fish bones for supper on her barge. That miserable milliner cheated his customers and he cheated me. If he is mentioned in my memoirs it will only be to publicize his deceit.”

  “We shall be lucky if we aren’t sued for criminal libel and put in a penitentiary,” Kate murmured.

  “Nonsense. I have proof of every arrangement I have conducted. You’ve read through my correspondences. I have three trunks stuffed with letters that you haven’t seen yet and I still can’t decipher. Who will bring a suit against me for telling the truth? We can even expose your lecherous Lord Overton if you like.”

  Kate shook her head. “I don’t like. He’s dead.”

  “Well, dead or not, he deserves it,” Georgette said, thumping one of her cushions with her foot. “It might make other men consider their abuse if they realized their crimes could become public knowledge.”

  “The aristocracy rarely p
ays for its crimes,” Kate said. “Anyway, I’d rather forget the damage he inflicted on me than inform the world about it.”

  “You look ill,” Georgette said in concern. “Go and have a sit-down. We’ll carry on tomorrow.”

  “We can’t keep putting everything off, madam. We must be prepared to face what might be. What if Mr. Earling comes home early? What if—”

  “I’ve wondered the same thing myself,” Georgette said, closing her eyes. “I’ve . . .”

  Kate waited. “Are you falling asleep again?” she whispered.

  Georgette didn’t answer, escaping into dreams that Kate could only envy.

  She stood. She had dreams of her own. The time had come to tell Georgette that she thought Stanley might propose to her and that she might accept. She wasn’t passionately in love with him. She wasn’t convinced she loved him at all. But her chances of ever making her own life grew daily more remote.

  “We’ll try again tomorrow,” Georgette whispered as Kate tiptoed to the door.

  “Perhaps the day after,” Kate replied. “I have to market in the morning.”

  Chapter 18

  Kate usually enjoyed the drive through the winding roads and lanes of cheery thatched cottages that led to the village. But the day had dawned with purple-gray clouds that hovered over the small carriage like an omen. The air turned still and oppressive, with a storm lurking above the hills. Nevertheless Kate would be grateful if ill weather was the only threat that came their way.

  Brian had asked to come with her, but Kate had thought it safer for him to stay home. Sir Colin insisted that he and the coachman drive together, two footmen at the rear, leaving Kate in the carriage with only Nan for company.

  With his high black hat pulled down to hide his watchful expression, a musket balanced between his long legs, it seemed doubtful that anyone would cross him or even dare to cross his path.

  “Nobody’s given us a second look yet,” Nan observed as the carriage rattled past the village green.

  “That’s fine,” Kate said. “Perhaps we’ll be able to finish our shopping before it rains.”

  “Usually there’s a crowd gathered, hoping for a peek of the harlot.”

  “Well, don’t wish trouble on us.”

  Nan stared through the window as the carriage slowed. “I take that back. The village hens have noticed Castle in the box. I’ll bet he’ll go to the top of their shopping list, well above candles and linens.”

  “Good,” Kate said irritably. “Let them notice him and leave us to our errands.”

  Nan drew back from the window with a scowl. “He doesn’t want to be noticed, does he?”

  “No.” Kate stared up into his shadowed face as he opened the carriage door for her. Her pelisse felt heavy and overwarm, and, blast it, but Nan was right. His appearance had already drawn the notice of a young housewife riding pillion who craned her head to gaze back at him. So brazen was her curious stare that Colin tipped his black hat, ignoring Kate long enough so that when he turned around to help her down the steps, she was already standing in the street.

  His mirthful eyes met hers. “I’ll stand outside the shops unless you indicate I’m needed inside.”

  She lifted her pale green wool pelisse from the curb. “I’m sure there will be plenty to please your eye while you wait.”

  “My eye?”

  “Yes. The eye that gawked at the woman who just rode past us.”

  “I did not gawk. I was merely being polite by acknowledging her. It would have seemed rude if I had ignored her, wouldn’t it?”

  Kate clasped her empty basket to her side. “Rude? You are employed by a fallen woman. No one expects you to mince about with the false manners of a footman at high tea.”

  He grinned, slouched up against the carriage. “Well, since I take some fault for her fall, I don’t think it’s appropriate to be rude. I—”

  “Turn your head,” she said quietly. “Examine the horses. Search the gutter for a lost coin. Try to hide your face.”

  He obeyed her without question, joining the footmen at the carriage’s rear to comment that a passerby had dropped a shilling in the street. Kate forced herself to behave normally, although her heart thundered in her ears. Advancing in her direction was Mason Earling’s solicitor, a man who made no secret that he disapproved of his client’s relationship with a courtesan. Kate had unsuccessfully urged Georgette to hire her own solicitor to ensure she was protected in case she conceived a child or Mason tired of her. Ramsey Hay rarely missed a chance to mutter some lowering imprecation about Georgette under his breath when he visited the house.

  He was slightly more civil to Kate. “Miss Walcott,” he said, drawing her into the doorway of the bookseller’s shop. “Do you think this is wise, for you to be seen in public?”

  He looked at her closely, although what he imagined lay underneath her dull muslin dress and buttoned pelisse she did not want to know. “Wise, Mr. Hay?”

  “I heard there was an incident at the house. I can’t say I am surprised. I have suggested that a cottage in the next village would be safer and certainly more discreet.”

  “Less expensive, too.”

  He frowned, glancing around at the carriage parked behind them. If he had looked back a second earlier, he would have caught Colin standing with his legs braced apart and his arms folded in contempt. Perhaps Colin knew who he was; Hay had worked for Mr. Earling at the time of Joshua Boscastle’s death.

  “I don’t think you should visit the village again,” he said bluntly. “If there is anything you need, contact me personally. And please tell Mrs. Lawson that I will not fund her frivolous tastes. I suggest she start trimming her expenses by letting some of the staff go. That doddering old drunk of a footman should be the first dismissed. Tell her also that her credit will be suspended at the end of the month.”

  Her face stung as if she had rubbed nettles on her cheeks. “I’m shopping for Mrs. Lawson right now, sir.”

  “Mrs. Lawson could live on one casket of her jewels for the next ten years, I’ve no doubt.”

  Nan approached the shop, giving Hay a glare. “I think I just felt a raindrop. Don’t want to be caught in a storm, do we?”

  Hay ignored her. “It is inappropriate for a gentleman to lavish his money on baubles for a woman who will not become his wife.”

  “He might marry her,” Nan said. “You never know. He’s loved her all his life.”

  “Pardon us, sir,” Kate said. “I need a few simple items—a bonnet for madam, a treat for the adorable pony Mr. Earling bought for Mrs. Lawson’s son, and I”—she lowered her gaze demurely—“I am desperate for a new pair of silk stockings.”

  He stared at her, his mouth flat with anger, his eyes dark with unpleasant interest. “You had better mind yourself, Miss Walcott. There aren’t many desirable positions for a young woman of your background.”

  He nodded, casting another look at the carriage, and walked off. Kate felt herself trembling inside, insulted, more convinced than ever that he would do everything in his power to sabotage Georgette’s affair with Mason.

  Then she looked up. In the shop window she saw Colin’s reflection as he returned to the door of the carriage. His eyes followed Hay’s retreat with palpable contempt. She sighed. There went the hope for an untroubled day. It was all she could do to concentrate on making her purchases.

  In fact, because Mr. Hay had spoken so contemptuously of Georgette, Kate decided to buy her mistress not only a charming pink bonnet but lace gloves to match.

  When she exited the last shop, she spotted Stanley, hurrying from the apothecary’s shop. He gave her a passing glance that made her throat tighten. Was he now going to pretend in public that they weren’t friends? She knew she shouldn’t blame him; he was timid and respectful of his father’s reputation, but still, she could not respect a hypocrite. But then he stopped, regarding her with surprised pleasure, and she suffered a pang of guilt for her misjudgment. “Kate—I mean, Miss Walcott. What a treat to see
you today! Everyone is out to do their shopping before the storm. But is it safe to be here unescorted after what just happened? Wouldn’t it have been better to stay in the house until the furor died down?”

  “You are a kind man, Stanley.”

  “I regret I can’t stay to talk. I’ve a delivery to make for an old lady who has fallen down her stairs and is in considerable pain. Perhaps I can stop by tonight . . . ?”

  She glanced involuntarily toward the carriage. She assumed that Colin had been watching this exchange. The thought pleased her. She hoped he would conclude that there were some gentlemen in the world who still considered Kate to be a wholesome young woman and not one to be kissed and invited to bed on the basis of mistaken identity or her employer’s profession.

  But Colin wasn’t watching her attempt at flirtation at all. He was engaged in one of his own with the young widow whose sea captain husband had died two years ago. How dare the woman with her thick red hair and lily-white skin appeal to Colin’s lower instincts? No wonder Georgette disliked her. True, the widow had to raise two little boys on a meager pension, but she had virtually thrown herself at the feet of every eligible man in the village. Would Colin be the one to succumb?

  “Kate,” Stanley said. “What is it?”

  From what Kate could see, the widow’s helplessness was appealing to the village’s latest and most eligible newcomer—Colin was helping her and a store clerk load her supplies into her simple cart.

  Her two sons stared at Colin.

  The clerk stared at Colin.

  The widow stared up at him in blushing gratitude.

  And Kate knew why.

  “I have to go now, Kate,” Stanley said with a touch of impatience. “Do finish your errands before the storm breaks.”

  Chapter 19

  The widow was as persistent as she was pretty. At another time her unsubtle overture might have aroused Colin’s interest. But it was damned awkward to wear his hat pulled low, keep an eye on the governess, and assist the widow in collecting the lace and cabbages she had deliberately dropped in the street.