“Do you mind?”
He shook his head. “I welcome it. My mother and yours can exchange stories about bringing up deities.”
That made her laugh, but at the mention of her mother, she sobered. “If my mother had not brought Rhea Simpson to my box at the theatre, matters could be a lot worse for me. She has every reason to hate me, because I never sent for her in all my time in France. My husband insisted on it as part of the marriage agreement.”
He reached out and took her free hand. She fanned herself more vigorously. He smiled. “I insist on making her part of the family. Perhaps she will choose to remain in the country. If she and my mother do not get on, I have other houses, other estates. Your mother worked in the country, did she not?”
“To keep us hidden, and in later years to keep herself busy, she said. But I sent her money. She had no need. She used different names, then.”
That news came as a relief to Harry. He didn’t give a damn who or what Virginie’s mother was, but society did, and society meant a lot to his future bride. Therefore it would matter to him. “She can be mistress of her own establishment, if she so chooses.”
He could do no other. Except that the thought of tucking the redoubtable Mrs. Davenport away and out of sight came as a distinct relief to him. He felt uncomfortable in her presence. She had shown nothing but kindness and thoughtfulness, together with the courage of a mortal eluding vengeful gods. He should be profoundly grateful to her, that she preserved Virginie and found her a protector. But Harry resented the late Duc de Clermont-Ferand. He’d had the sweetness of the young Virginie.
“Will your forced attraction to Lyndhurst fade away now?” He preferred to think of it as a spell, not reality. He could deal with it better that way.
“It should,” she said.
“She says the spell with Lyndhurst will die a natural death,” Harry said later at the club to a mildly bemused d’Argento. After giving him the news, d’Argento had sunk into the nearest chair and gestured with his hand for him to go on. Harry had recounted the meeting. Leaving out the kisses, naturally.
“She is wrong,” Amidei said briefly.
“You are so sure?”
D’Argento nodded. “Regretfully yes.” Shaking back the lace ruffles at his cuff, he poured tea from a porcelain pot into two dishes. Tea might be labelled a lady’s drink, but men indulged from time to time.
Harry took the cup and saucer and helped himself to milk, settling into one of the ridiculously fragile-looking chairs in d’Argento’s private sitting room. All gilded and French style, the surroundings suited his host. They didn’t suit Harry, but thankfully they accepted his weight.
“I fear the end of the affair could prove violent.”
“You mean Lyndhurst will not give her up? She doesn’t want to have an affair with a married man with children.”
D’Argento sighed. “Yes, there is that too. I’m not certain Lyndhurst isn’t behaving too precipitately. He claims the children are not his, although he does know the lady. In the Biblical sense. I’m sorry you were dragged into the business.”
“After the wedding, I’m taking Virginie to my house in Cheshire. It’s not far to the part of Cumbria where the Simpsons live. I plan to visit.”
D’Argento brightened, a slight crease appearing at the corners of his mouth. “That would be a good idea. Find out what they know about the affair. They are not coming for the wedding. I have no idea why they did not chase their daughter the minute she disappeared with the babies.”
“The last two words might give you a clue.” Harry sipped his tea. “They live in a village. There is nothing like a village for spreading gossip. Apart from society, of course.”
“Which is its own village.” D’Argento flashed a smile, then applied himself to his tea before he spoke again. “I see what you mean. But she is their daughter. Surely they cared a little.”
“I’ll find out and let you know,” Harry said.
“You might be too busy.” D’Argento winked.
Harry put down his empty dish. “I have no wish to rush Virginie into this marriage. We will take it at her pace. If she wishes to accompany me to Cumbria, then of course she must do so.”
“She will like be of no mind to do anything,” d’Argento said. He crossed his legs, the elegant gesture far beyond Harry, who kept both feet firmly planted on the floor. He touched his new cane, Malacca with a tiger’s head snarling at the top, carved in ivory. He might take to making handles when he got home. When he wasn’t busy fashioning roses for his wife.
Tension caught his throat, and he frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’re forgetting what I told you before. This is an enchantment that conveys addiction, just as much as laudanum can. She is in the first stages, but it will get worse. She is still in Lyndhurst’s vicinity, which eases the pain somewhat. When you remove her, she could go into a dangerous spiral.”
The tension increased. “Worse? Will it kill her?”
D’Argento took a deep breath, his chest expanding visibly. “It could. It’s unlikely, but it’s possible.”
“And what can cure this?”
“The best thing for her would be to fight through it on her own. However, that is also the hardest way. You could have Lyndhurst to stay with you. Naturally he could have his own problems when she is removed from his vicinity.”
“All this from a lust spell?”
“They allowed it to grow. I do not know why.”
Knowing Virginie a little better now, Harry could make an educated guess. She was lost. Her breath-taking air of elegance and assurance covered a very different character, one he was just beginning to know. He wanted to understand her more than anything else. Except to take her to bed and make love to her until neither of them could stay awake any longer.
“Am I affected by the spell?”
D’Argento shook his head. “You never came in contact with it. Anything you feel is yours to cope with. Unless someone else cast a spell upon you.”
That hadn’t happened. He didn’t feel the terrible, consuming lust that had affected the couple at the theatre that first night. Only desire and a wash of pleasure when he recalled the kisses they had shared and the feel of her body pressed against his.
He wanted her badly, but he could live without her. He wouldn’t go mad without her.
Virginie might go insane without Lyndhurst, or even die.
He would do everything in his power to prevent that happening. “What do you know about this? What can I do?”
D’Argento’s mouth flattened. “I’m not sure. They perpetrated the addiction, so it’s possible they could break it themselves. But separate, it will worsen, I know that much. Maybe you should keep her close to him until she eases away. A gentle easement would be kinder.”
He couldn’t bear to see her close to Lyndhurst, but if it helped her, he’d do it without question. He would rather take the pain for her.
That gave him an idea. “Can I link with her? Help her get through it?”
“Possibly. If you marry her, if you’re intimate, then perhaps. But I don’t know.” D’Argento stirred in his chair, shifting as if uncomfortable. “I’ve rarely come across this situation before. The incidents I’ve seen are all different, which is why I can’t be specific. I’m sorry. It depends a great deal on the situation and the individuals concerned. Mortals cannot resist, once they have reached this stage, but immortals have a chance.”
“How do you know this?”
“Experience.” D’Argento grimaced. “I have seen the different kinds of enchantments. This one grew into and alongside the other, like a cuckoo in a nest. When Kentmere’s arrows started to lose their potency, the other began to take over, and then they fed it.”
Harry would have to depend on Virginie. Whatever she wanted, that he would do. But if she returned to Lyndhurst in this situation, with an innocent woman depending on him, then he would have to cut the connection. However much that would hurt him.
/> He got to his feet, using his cane as lightly as he could. Generally he preferred not to depend on his sticks and canes. He didn’t want his leg to get any worse, but recently he realised it probably would not. His leg was part of what he was. It wouldn’t get better, neither would it get worse. The canes helped him to keep his balance. The pain remained at the same level, but he was accustomed to it by now. At least he could thank his mother for that, to accept his pain stoically and not to inflict it on others. Weaknesses were to be despised.
“Thank you. I believe you should wish me happy in a day or two. I will make the arrangements and send you word. We’ve agreed on a small ceremony.”
One thing was for sure. He wouldn’t give her up without a fight.
Chapter Ten
“Madam, madam!”
Virginie woke from a restless sleep with her maid’s words ringing in her ears. Sitting up in bed, she shook her head and pushed her night-time plaits away from her face. The two braids fell heavily over her shoulder blades. “What on earth is so important, girl? I told you not to disturb me. What has happened that made you decide to disobey my orders?”
“It’s Miss Simpson, ma’am, the lady the Duke of Lyndhurst was about to marry.” Virginie’s maid appeared most unlike her normal, controlled self. Although dressed as neatly as always, strands of hair peeped out from under her linen cap, and she wore no ruffles. Fenton tended to remove her lace ruffles when she was using the iron, in case she spoiled it. Her flushed complexion inclined to confirm that theory, or maybe something else had caused that. She was wringing her hands together. Worry creased her forehead in deep furrows.
“Why should Miss Simpson concern me?” Virginie dragged back the covers and reached for her robe, shrugging into it without Fenton’s help. Usually the maid would have got hold of the robe before she did. “What time is it?”
Striding to the window, she hauled back the curtains. Outside sunlight bathed the garden with golden light, the water sprinkling from the small fountain glittering in the summer brightness. As if to answer her, the clock chimed. Ten, and then the three small chimes for the three-quarter. She’d slept longer than she’d thought.
She turned her back on the window and folded her arms. “Well? Out with it!”
And why had her maid not brought her tray? Not that Virginie couldn’t function without her tea and toast, but she had never known Fenton to enter her bedroom in the morning without it.
“She’s dead, your grace!”
“Goodness!” Virginie stared at her maid, noting the wide eyes, the shocked expression. “How did that happen? Illness, an accident?”
“Murder!”
A sense of unreality struck Virginie. How could that be when she’d seen the woman herself the night before last? Rhea Simpson’s appearance at the theatre had given Virginie tacit approval to go ahead with accepting Harry’s proposal. As far as she was concerned, the door had closed between her and Marcus.
To her deep shame, relief filled her, as if it came from an outside source. Marcus was free again. She could go back.
Instinct brought that thought, but her reason told her no. She disgusted herself. How could she think that?
Murder? Had Fenton really said that? “How?”
“A woman discovered her in her room this morning. Her body was cold and the blood was congealed on her clothes.”
Virginie repressed her shudder. If anything could take her mind off the predicament that had clogged her thoughts for the past several weeks, then the notion of a healthy young woman killed could accomplish the task. “Blood?”
“Someone had stabbed her, your grace!” Fenton was behaving far too dramatically. Her shudder spoke of the stage.
“Pull yourself together, woman, and tell me the whole. Then you may fetch my breakfast, for I’m not likely to get any more sleep today.”
She needed time to think.
Fenton bowed, and Virginie waited for her to compose herself. When her maid straightened, the smooth expression she usually wore was back in place. Her maid folded her hands before her and took a deep breath. “Although Miss Simpson was staying here at the club, she did not have a personal abigail. She cared for the babies herself.”
“Unusual.” Especially with twins.
“Indeed. She utilised one of the staff to care for the children when she left the house.” Fenton glanced at Virginie’s face. “Your lady mother customarily helped, but of course she has not been there recently. However, she found a maid, and when she returned from the theatre, where she met you and your mother, she went back to the club. That was the last time anyone saw her. Alerted by the babies making far too much noise, the factotum at the club, Lightfoot, ventured into the room this morning and found her dead. Stabbed through the heart.” Virginie allowed Fenton her dramatic shudder. “She was wearing the same gown that she wore to the theatre.”
Alarm shot through Virginie. “You mean that she wasn’t seen after her visit?”
“Exactly, ma’am. Would you like your breakfast now?”
“Yes, please.” She needed time to think.
Fenton left the room in a self-important swish of silk. Cursing under her breath, Virginie strode to the bed, then to the dressing table. She caught sight of her tousled figure in the mirror before she paced back again. Unable to keep still, she walked. She’d go to the park and get rid of some of this restless energy while she thought.
If Rhea was discovered in her clothes from the theatre, that meant she must have died that same night. Or did it? If she hadn’t been seen, why didn’t someone enquire before? D’Argento was a better host than that. And what did that mean for Marcus?
While she felt sorry for the poor woman, Virginie admitted, at least to herself, that she hadn’t known Rhea well enough to mourn her. At least, no more than anyone hearing of the sad death of a stranger would. She had built bridges for Marcus’s sake, and, she had to say, for her own. To help her re-entry into society. That was even more important now she had agreed to marry Harry.
No, it was no good. She had to go to the club. Thank heaven women could go there without a male escort.
When Virginie did go to the club an hour later, her mother accompanied her. Any hope she’d had that Deirdre would remain at the house were dashed when her mother met her in the hall and clearly stated her intentions of going. “Those poor babies! Motherless and fatherless!”
“They have a father,” Virginie reminded her.
“For all the good that will do them.” Deirdre huffed, folding her arms under her breasts. “The sad young woman was friendless.”
Virginie said nothing further until they had climbed into the carriage and obtained privacy. Despite the warmth of the day, she kept the windows closed, for fear the footman behind might get a hint of what she had to say.
“I can’t but feel for her. But I cannot see what that will mean to you. Aren’t you better leaving someone else to deal with this?” her mother said.
“Mother, you know what else that means,” she snapped. “You surely cannot ignore that.”
When they got to the club, her worst fears were confirmed. A small group of gapers had gathered around, so the news was abroad already.
With her nose in the air Virginie swept past and up the steps. She could not avoid hearing the murmurs of “Bitch” and “French whore” that followed her. They hurt, even though they were entirely incorrect. She was the villainess of the piece, then. She feared that. The gossips would find a way to bring her into the picture. She would cope with that when she had to. Her imminent departure to France loomed as a strong possibility once more.
Everything seemed to be going wrong since she arrived in this country she still thought of as home, despite having spent so long in France. Did a curse follow her here? She was beginning to think so.
The main hall initially appeared the same. Just a few more people, that was all. The graceful staircase swept up to the higher levels and the porter stood behind his desk. The footman was stationed in one
corner, ready to attend to the needs of the visitors. To the left an open door indicated the part of the club available to all. Beyond stood a suite of spacious rooms, some of them for the exclusive use of woman.
Virginie turned right, the footman opening the door for her. It led to the staff quarters and the suite of rooms set aside for the use of the immortals to the club. Not that they were framed as such. Most people knew them as the rooms where a special test was conducted to decide membership. Although mortal, Mrs. Davenport could enter as Virginie’s guest.
Beyond, the apparent tranquillity of the club shattered into little pieces. Susanna, her erstwhile ward, nodded to her. Nobody else moved.
D’Argento, who was standing with his back to her, jerked around when she entered. He strode across the polished parquet floor to meet her, his face thunderous. “Why did you come here?”
“What else did you expect me to do?” she demanded furiously. “Wait patiently at home for the mob to come?”
“You’re connected too closely to this affair.” He shook his head. Although as immaculately attired as always, his movements were not as practised, and his expression was far from guarded. “You should go. Did anyone see you arrive?”
“Only the crowd outside. Amidei, I refuse to skulk in my house. I will not allow people to speculate and think the worst of me.”
He cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowing. “Marcus is here.”
“I presumed he would be.” She had to fight to keep her expression neutral. “Does he know any more than anyone else?” In other words, had he visited Rhea before she died?
Amidei shook his head. “She was wearing the same clothes she wore at the theatre.”
Virginie silently vowed never to visit the theatre again. “We left her here. Did nobody see her come in?”
“Nobody remembers seeing her, although we are continuing to ask, of course.”
Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 Page 10