Lightfoot took Harry to the room where all members were allowed, and then to a small parlour leading off the main entrance hall. Harry did his best to stroll, and he waited outside the room until Lightfoot had opened the door for him and he could see inside.
Mrs. Davenport, and a younger woman he didn’t recognise. He bowed to the housekeeper and she bobbed a curtsey back. Only then did he enter.
Lightfoot gently closed the door behind them. “My lord,” said the stranger standing by the window. She stood behind a ladderback chair, her hand clutching the top rung. Her knuckles were white.
He sketched a bow. “I promise I mean you no harm, ma’am. You may take a seat.”
The woman shot him a cautious glance, then her attention flicked to Mrs. Davenport. “Thank you, my lord.” She spoke with a refined accent, maybe a little too refined, as if she’d learned it rather than it coming naturally to her. Her clothes were far from fashionable excess, but respectable, the hem of her dark green gown a little stained and worn from the London streets. Everything about her was neat and in place from the hat set straight on her head to her embroidered decorative apron. Her well-polished but shabby street shoes peeped from her gown when she moved. In other circumstances, and without the lines creasing her brow and corners of her mouth, he might consider her attractive.
She shook her head, bit her lip and sat, sweeping her skirt under her and then folding her hands in her lap.
He initiated the conversation. “May I have your name, if you please?”
She swallowed. “Yes. I’m Rhea Simpson.” She put up her chin, glaring at him defiantly. “Miss.”
After a pause, in which it became clear the lady didn’t intend to add any more to her less than sparkling conversational gambit, Harry said, “And I’m Lord Valsgarth. I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, because I do not have the vaguest recollection of meeting you. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”
She glanced at the housekeeper and then flicked her gaze back to Harry. He waited. He’d done his best, but if she didn’t say something soon he’d leave her to Mrs. Davenport’s graces.
At last she took a deep breath and spoke. “I’m a mother, sir, a mother and unmarried. That is because your friend, his grace the Duke of Lyndhurst, cruelly seduced me and abandoned me. I wished to tell someone and your name was put forward. I need help—”
Once she’d started headlong on her story, she found difficulty stopping. Harry raised his hand to stem the flow. He processed what she was saying and decided to take the subject one step at a time. “You are an unwed mother, you say?”
She nodded and bit her lower lip as if stemming tears.
An awkward situation. “You are mistaken in one respect. I think you wish to speak to the owner of the club, Lord d’Argento, rather than me. He knows his grace better than I do. He might be able to expedite a solution for your problem.”
“No, sir!” Gripping her hands together, she began a wringing motion.
“Why ever not? I am merely a guest here. Are you one of my tenants?”
She cast a glance at Mrs. Davenport, who was standing silently by, her hands loosely clasped together. Her attention returned to Harry, flying back to him. If she didn’t calm down soon she’d have an apoplexy. “Yes sir, that’s it. I’m from”—she gasped—“the village.”
“Which one?”
Tears escaped her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. “If I may intrude, my lord,” Mrs. Davenport said. “Before you came in, I asked her where she had come from, since she is not wearing London dress. She told me she had travelled from York on the stage, and from Aylsford in a farmer’s gig.”
“Ah.” Aylsford was definitely a village he owned, but on a far-flung estates, in Cumbria, close to Lake Windermere. Although not far from his main seat in Cheshire, he rarely visited it. That would explain why her name wasn’t familiar.
He searched his memory and came up with the name Sir Samuel Simpson. Damn. “And you say you were seduced by the Duke of Lyndhurst? How did he find his way to Aylsford?”
The lady gave Mrs. Davenport another glance and then to him again. She swallowed. “I met his grace by chance last year when he stopped at the village after a visit to friends in Scotland.” Tears filmed her eyes. “He swept me away, my lord. But he made me promises, and he should keep them. I’m a respectable girl.”
She caught her breath and closed her eyes, clearly controlling her emotions. He liked her for that. “He didn’t make any secret of his identity, but he did not woo me in public. I’m afraid I allowed him to take more liberties than he should have done.”
So, as she was the daughter of one of his tenants, he had some responsibility in the affair. He should at least act as her representative. “Miss Simpson, I will speak to his grace on your behalf, but I can promise nothing. It is indeed reprehensible of him to do such a thing, if he has done so. If he confirms this story, I will of course help to bring a conclusion to this affair.”
More than ever Harry was glad he’d asked for a chaperone. He’d never met this woman before, and had no evidence she had even given birth, much less had relations with Lyndhurst. He had no reason to like Lyndhurst, but he couldn’t cast aspersions on his character without proof.
He skimmed her mind, searching for anything that might give him a clue. Confusion and distress met him, and the images of two babies. Through the whole ran a thread of truth. She was not lying. That was another blow.
Cautiously, he asked her, “What would satisfy you?”
“Marriage,” she said promptly. She winced and clasped her hand to her forehead as if pained. “Nothing else would gratify my father.”
Harry’s leg was beginning to ache, but loath to admit any weakness, he merely leaned on his cane a little more. At least he had his old favourite today, the one with the silver knob that fit in his hand so well.
“Where are you staying?”
“At an inn. I can give you the direction, sir.”
He nodded, and glanced at Mrs. Davenport. “You can see to that, can you not?”
The housekeeper bobbed a curtsey. “Indeed, my lord. I will arrange for Miss Simpson to return to her lodgings in a hackney.”
“Thank you.”
It took a great deal of effort for him to turn and leave the room, keeping his body upright. His bad knee had locked and when he tried to bend it shards of agony shot up his thigh. Didn’t godhead mean invulnerability? He left the parlour and carried on going, because if he stopped he might not get started again. At the moment the stairs were beyond his capabilities. He took himself across the hall to the small room put aside for the use of the staff.
Lowering himself to a chair, he groaned in pain and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. Lord above, what was he to do now?
Fortunately he had the room to himself. The smell of pipe tobacco permeated the atmosphere, and he breathed it in, forcing relaxation through his body as his knee eased.
Was he the one god with a physical disability? He had not met another who was less than perfect.
The recent interview dismayed him. He was bound to help a tenant, and he had no reason to doubt her. He’d read truth in her mind, and he knew the name she gave him. Surely she would have found that information too obscure to obtain. Why would she add a detail like that if it wasn’t true? She could have claimed to be the daughter of someone more exalted and he’d never know the difference.
He wouldn’t have long to himself, but with any luck he’d be able to move his knee freely soon. He put his palm over the area and moved his hand around, heating and rubbing the joint until it felt better.
Was Lyndhurst capable of fathering children and walking away? Harry would like to think not, but he didn’t know the man well enough. Certainly Lyndhurst’s god was perfectly equal to it. But this incarnation, this duke had been a military man, and according to his record, a distinguished one. Major, the Duke of Lyndhurst was assuredly a man used to command. Was he as accustomed to seduction?
Cau
tiously, Harry got to his feet, pressing his heel to the floor. Maybe he should wear boots for a change and go for a ride. He hadn’t brought any mounts, but he’d wager Lightfoot could find him one large enough to bear his weight.
By seducing someone Harry was responsible for, Lyndhurst had dragged Harry back into the whole business. After the affair of the rose, he’d been ready to walk away, but he couldn’t do it now.
Maybe not the right way of putting it. Harry grimaced at his feet and then stamped his cane on the floor before taking a few careful steps.
No help for it. He’d have to deal with this unfortunate affair.
Chapter Four
“Yellow, I shall wear yellow.” Virginie surveyed the array of brilliantly coloured gowns laid out on the bed ready for her inspection. “Tonight I want to dazzle.”
“You dazzle every night, ma’am,” Fenton said. She gestured to her assistant, who carried the gown reverently to where Virginie stood waiting in the middle of her bedroom. They helped her into it, smoothing the fabric carefully into place, and Virginie watched them turn her into a vision. More of a vision.
It was difficult to have any degree of modesty when her other self was the goddess of beauty and love. Would she have been like this had she grown up as a mortal? Her mother was not so lovely. She hadn’t seen her in years.
Once she’d been close to her mother, clung to her when times were bad and danced with her when they were good. An aeon ago.
She touched the silver rose Lord Valsgarth had given her last night. A petal had bent from her rough treatment of the gift. Guilt suffused her when she recalled the way she’d treated him, but she pushed the emotion aside. It had no place in her perfect world.
However, she did lift the blossom from the crystal vase she’d placed it in and gently stroked the bent petal back into position, restoring the perfection. A bump nudged her fingers. It wasn’t perfect, then. She grazed her finger over the smooth imperfection, then once more before turning the flower to examine it. A thorn prodded her, but although they adorned the stem, they were not sharp. He’d blunted the edges and tips.
He’d created a drop of dew on the petal. Maybe it was a raindrop, but the polished, tear-shaped bead was meant to be there, too delicately positioned to be accidental.
A poignant note struck deep inside her, discordance breaking into her spell. Unhappiness reminded her of its presence.
It had no place in her, but the crack remained, a tiny hairline fracture in her perfect world. She replaced the rose in its vase.
The attendants pinned, laced and tucked the gown so it delineated the curve of her waist, the swell of her bosom and flowed over her hoops in graceful folds to her feet. She turned slowly, her skirts swishing. Virginie stood still while her maid fastened a frill of lace around her throat and a collar of pearls over that, then clasped a matching bracelet of pearls around her wrist. Her earrings were from the Clermont-Ferand collection. She had left most of it behind when her husband had died. He’d bought her enough of her own for her not to miss them. But she was fond of the pearls and the current incumbent of the title had allowed her to use them. They wouldn’t have suited him, she thought with a wry grin. Her fan was lace to match the frills at her throat, bosom and elbows.
Virginie rarely tired of fine clothes and jewels. Tonight she reflected that she’d like a weekend in the country, to dress in something far less elaborate and spend the days in idleness.
The notion was passing, replaced by the headier heated excitement when she recalled she’d see Marcus again tonight. As if she had not seen him for a month or more, her senses yearned for his touch, his kisses. And she was never satisfied. Night after night, the hunger grew worse as they fed their mutual madness.
What did she care about the other people who caught their backwash and fell into each other’s arms? Everyone should have a taste of the fever of love, of passion and attraction, unbearable and beautiful. She and Marcus were doing them a favour.
She donned a hat, a pair of gloves and the lightest of cloaks.
Tiring of the women’s fussing, she shook them off and stalked from the room. Tonight they would dazzle at a society ball. Marcus would meet her there, and they would dance the night away before returning home.
She moderated her pace to a ladylike gentle step and managed to reach the hall with only the bare minimum of attention. Only a dozen or so people stopped to stare at her. She’d always considered staring a vulgar practice, so she ignored them. She made her way to the front door, not moderating her speed. The man standing by it would open it in time for her to step through.
Outside she paused while her maid caught up with her and then graciously accepted her footman’s assistance into the gilded carriage that stood waiting.
The coachman knew his destination and he set off as soon as Fenton rapped on the ceiling. All perfectly acceptable, and all becoming frankly boring.
Her ward, Susanna, had left her in favour of visiting friends in the country. Susanna would do well. As an immortal and a lovely young woman, she had her own court. Sometimes Virginie missed her, someone to talk to and laugh with.
The carriage rattled over the cobbles, but they didn’t go far. In fact, the house she was attending tonight was in easy distance of her residence, but it would have been churlish to arrive on foot.
People waited outside. When they saw her crest on the door of the carriage, a ragged cheer went up. Not unusually, they waited for her. People had paid to see a pair of shoes she’d had made. The cobbler displayed a note in his window for the three days before her servant had picked them up. They collected her leavings, like the fan she’d broken and abandoned at the Royal Exchange, or the handkerchief she’d dropped outside the Pantheon club when she’d stayed there. The footman had stolen and sold three more before Fenton had caught him and reported it to Amidei.
She climbed down, put on her best air of hauteur and walked inside the gracious house belonging to Lord and Lady Ellesmere—Jupiter and his consort. They were holding a select gathering for the chosen few. In other words, two hundred of the great and good. Since Lord Ellesmere was the de facto Duke of Boscobel, more would be lining up for admittance before the evening was done.
But not the rabble standing outside. They gathered to watch. Some spent all their time watching and some did it for a living. The evening was moving towards nightfall. Dusk cast its softer light over the creamy white stucco of the house and the waving greenery of the garden at the centre of the square.
When someone cried “Whore!” Virginie thought they meant another person, until someone else followed it with “French whore!”
If they only knew. The small dart hit home, but not badly. It stung merely, and she flicked off the emotion while the footman took her hat, cloak and gloves.
He wasn’t here. But she could sense when Marcus was near, a tingle in her bones that excited her, preparing her for the feverish night to come. For she intended to spend all night in his arms, once they’d fed their addiction by driving everyone here into a similar state. Like emotional leeches. But in a good way, she told herself firmly.
She was a woman on her own. While she was no murderess, she’d have considered it had she realised she’d achieve this much freedom. And tonight Marcus had promised her something special. She suspected a ring and a proposal. Why should she not accept?
Exhilaration filled her to her toes when she envisioned the years ahead.
Greeting acquaintances, Virginie climbed the elegant staircase in search of her host and hostess. And to wait for her lover.
However, the first person she saw was the man who’d presented her with the exquisite silver rose. The gift she’d treated so badly. Perhaps she’d return it to him. He did not approach her, but she glided to him. After all, she had time and he would hardly ask her to dance again.
That note of regret slid past her defences, the poignancy and the not-quite-right discomfort clashing with the euphoria that suffused her these days. She didn’t like it, but s
he couldn’t ignore it.
He bowed, but to her relief didn’t move away. He provided an interesting contrast to Marcus. Where Marcus was a big cat, all sleek power and threatened violence, Valsgarth was a bear—outright, unleashed strength. Despite the cane, she had no doubt he could destroy anyone he chose with his bare hands.
Women feared and wanted him; she noted the way they looked at him, calculating and interested. He could have anyone he chose. Except for her, naturally. The past history of their godhead made her wary of him, and in any case, she was spoken for. Even that gentle reminder of the way Marcus spoke to her caused a delightful tremor to shiver over her skin.
“You took me by surprise last night, my lord,” she told him. People all around them were agog, their ears all but flapping. Would she treat them to another example of her behaviour? They didn’t have to say it for her to hear it.
A candle flickered as someone laughed, their breath causing the flame to waver. The shadow rippled against his dark face, making the craggy peaks and hollows somehow sinister. But attractive too.
The response was dry, but not as harsh as she was expecting. “My lady, I hardly expected you to approach me tonight, since my gift obviously displeased you.”
“It’s a pretty thing, skilfully wrought. It amuses me.” She didn’t mention the tear the raindrop on the rose had nearly drawn from her. No need for anyone to know that.
“I have a forge at my home in Cheshire and an attached workshop for more delicate pieces. I enjoy the pastime.”
She raised a brow, trying not to appear impressed, because she didn’t lie. “I assure you, sir, it’s more than a pastime. The work is so skilful I thought it created by a master of the silversmith’s art.”
He gave her a half-smile, one that, while not transforming him, certainly softened his features. “Can a dilettante not be a master?”
“I don’t know. But I’m glad you find something to do with your time.”
Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 Page 4