Ravished

by Virginia Henley

  After the play as they exited the theater, Alex took her courage in her hands. “Are some of these fashionably dressed women mistresses?”

  “It’s not a subject I should be discussing with you, Alex.”

  “Oh, I know that, but since I need educating, I didn’t think you’d mind giving me lessons.”

  What man could resist? “Yes, the beautiful companions are mistresses, the plainer ones are generally wives. You could easily be mistaken for my mistress tonight, Alexandra,” he warned gravely.

  That’s a step up from the strumpet I was taken for in St. James’s Street today! With a straight face she inquired, “What does a mistress cost?”

  “Gowns, jewels, carriage and horses, plus a house in Chelsea.”

  “Why are the streets filled with … ladies of the night?”

  “Ah, the ‘Duchesses of Drury Lane.’ After the first act is over, the theaters lower the admission price. The doxies flock inside to ply their trade. Why does this lurid subject interest you?”

  “Because it’s lurid, of course,” she said, laughing.

  “This whole area, from the Strand to Holborn, is quite lurid—not at all suitable for unwed ladies, though.” He tried to change the subject. “Would you like some late supper?”

  “If you take me somewhere close by that’s interesting.”

  “Well, I cannot guarantee that the company will be élite.”

  “If you could, I wouldn’t want to go.”

  They passed a man on the corner playing a barrel organ. His tiny, red-capped monkey held out his tin cup to them, and when Hart dropped in a half crown, the fey little creature doffed his cap. Laughing, they turned down Russell Street, where Hart took her into an interesting establishment that served food and drink. It had a bar with a brass foot-rail where the patrons could stand, or they could sit at small round tables and rub elbows with the habitués.

  Hart ordered for her, as was the custom. It was a custom Alex abhorred; though she did not object to the potted lobster hors d’oeuvre when it arrived, she drew the line at the ladies’ drink of sherry. “How about a wager? I’ll order a typical male supper of raw oysters and cognac, followed by one of your cheroots. If I get through it without casting up my accounts, you must agree to take me wherever I wish to go one night next week. If I don’t pass muster, you may choose the place.”

  Hart Cavendish was fascinated. Alexandra Sheffield wanted to be treated as an equal, rather than being placed on a pedestal like most debutantes. “The place you want to visit must be strictly off-limits, for you to make such a drastic wager.”

  “Perhaps, but I shan’t tell you where until the very night.”

  “You make the mystery so intriguing! I accept your wager.” He promptly ordered them each a dozen oysters and a cognac.

  Alex made short work of the oysters on the half shell; however, she knew the cognac would be a challenge. But when Hart opened his gold cigar case and offered her a cheroot, she took it without much anxiety; the Hatton twins had taught her to smoke when she was fourteen.

  When he lit her cheroot with an amused look of skepticism on his face, Alex knew she had to pull it off. She sipped and puffed very, very slowly, and her eyes narrowed against the smoke. She looked about the room in a leisurely fashion until she heard sudden applause. “Isn’t that the famous singer from Ranelagh Gardens?”

  Hart turned his head. “Sophia Baddeley, yes. She’s Melbourne’s current mistress, but he and I won’t acknowledge each other tonight, because I have a lady with me.”

  “But I’m smoking like a chimney; how will he know I’m a lady?”

  “Because I will give him the cut, and he’ll know immediately.”

  “Oh, Hart, how ridiculous the rules of Society are. We didn’t need to attend a play that was a comedy of manners; we are living a comedy of manners!”

  “Being with you is more entertaining than any play, Alex. You win the wager; I shall take you wherever you wish to go.” He grinned at her. “Even if you had lost, I would have taken you.”

  “I know.” She grinned back. “I just wanted to show off!”

  Hart threw back his head and laughed out loud. Alex joined him and realized that the cognac had gone straight to her head. The fresh air helped sober her a little as they strolled back to where the Devonshire carriage awaited them.

  Inside, she deliberately spread her cloak, her reticule, and the lampoons he had bought her along the seat, so that Hart was forced to sit opposite her again. She was sending him a message that she wanted a safe distance between them, with no attempts at kissing.

  When the coach stopped in Berkeley Square, Hart inquired, “Will I see you Friday night at Burlington House?”

  “Yes, we received our invitation. I shall finally get to meet your sister, Lady Dorothy Howard, Countess of Carlisle. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she assured him, her mind immediately filled with the image of Nick Hatton.

  Hart escorted her to her doorstep and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Thank you for a most memorable evening, Alex.” When he returned to the carriage he was in a quandary. Because of his parents’ disastrous marital ménageries, he had no desire for a wife; he had in fact sworn off marriage for life. He was the wealthiest nobleman in England and could afford any mistress he desired. But now he had a dilemma. He was badly smitten by Alex and longed to become her lover, but she was an heiress, and offering carte blanche to a lady with her wealth would be no inducement whatsoever.

  Chapter Twelve

  Christopher Hatton watched as Nicholas packed his trunk. He envied his twin the Royal Horse Artillery uniform, especially the firearms he had been issued. The silver-mounted flintlock pistols, made by Godsall, had twelve-inch barrels and ornate handles. Their lockplates bore the emblem of the Crown with the initials GR for Georgius Rex.

  “You are taking your own mount, Slate?” Kit asked.

  “Yes, I know his value; I bred him myself. I’ll ride him to Portsmouth, and I’ve arranged to hire a packhorse for my baggage.”

  “Do you have to leave today?” Kit’s tone was grudging.

  “What would be the point in delaying my departure?” Gray eyes stared into identical gray for a long, drawn-out moment.

  Finally, Kit broke their gaze. He felt a great deal of resentment toward his twin brother for what he had done. He truly did not mind him being an army officer, but why the hell hadn’t he joined the Horse Guards, so he could be stationed in London? It was the looming separation that angered Kit. He had refused to think about it for the last two days, but now that it was Thursday, and Nick’s departure was imminent, he could think of nothing else.

  Kit feared that, without Nick, he would lose his identity. They were twins, for Christ’s sake, a pair, always together. Twins supported each other, leaned on each other, championed each other. Now Nick was deserting him, leaving him in the lurch, and moreover, he seemed happy about doing it! A feeling of panic rose up within him, and it took a steely effort to keep it from overwhelming him. Kit asked himself what the hellfire he had done to deserve such unjust treatment from his brother.

  Nicholas was quite aware that Christopher resented his going, but he honestly believed that Kit would ultimately benefit from their separation. He had long overshadowed his twin, and this would allow Kit to stand on his own two feet and become his own man.

  When it was time for him to leave, Nick decided a gesture was necessary to show his brother that he needed his help. “I’m flat broke, Kit. Could you cough up a tenner for my journey?”

  “You bloody fool! Why didn’t you say something?” Kit emptied his pockets of all the money he was carrying, then went to his room and brought him another twenty pounds, which was everything he had in the house.

  “Thanks, old man. I owe you.” Nick embraced his brother, bade him take care of himself, then hoisted his trunk to his shoulder. “Don’t come down with me; I have to do this on my own.”

  Kit stared at the door long after he had gone. You bastard,
Nick! You prefer doing things on your own!

  By nightfall, Christopher Hatton was dead drunk. When Rupert came to call in Curzon Street, Fenton, the butler, told him that Lord Hatton was not receiving visitors. Rupert stood there a moment or two with a furrowed brow. What the hell was his friend playing at? Then his brow cleared. “Must have a bit of muslin upstairs,” he muttered to himself. “Oh, well. I suppose I shall see him at Burlington House tomorrow night.”

  Christopher Hatton’s first order of business the next morning was Barclays. He withdrew a substantial amount of funds, reasoning that spending lavishly would banish his blue devils. Before he left the bank, however, he came face-to-face with Jeremy Eaton.

  “H’lo, Harm. I was hoping I’d bump into you.”

  Kit bristled when his second cousin did not use his title, but he masked his irritation because he sensed that young Eaton was there for a purpose. Since he was showing no deference, Kit was on his guard immediately. “How do you know I’m not Nicholas?”

  Jeremy chuckled. “What business could Nick possibly have at Barclays when you got all the money? Unless, of course, you paid him off for taking the blame.”

  “I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about!”

  “Oh, I think you do, Harm. Remember, I was there the day of the fatal accident.”

  The blood drained from Kit’s face, and he thought he might faint. “What the hellfire are you insinuating?” he bluffed.

  “I am insinuating nothing, Harm, though I certainly could. I know how to keep my mouth shut. I would never divulge to a soul that I was close enough to the scene of the accident to hear you arguing with your father in the woods that day.”

  Panic rose up in Kit Hatton; blood returned to his brain and his head began to pound. Nick had warned him about this slimy piece of offal, but he had ignored his twin. Kit’s panic suddenly doubled; Nick was gone and would not be able to take care of this trouble. Kit silently cursed his brother for deserting him and leaving him to cope with this nightmare on his own.

  Jeremy smiled. “Blood is thicker than water, cousin; you may trust me implicitly. On another subject entirely, I wonder if you would stand me a loan? I have the inside track on a good investment but find myself five hundred pounds short.”

  Kit knew it was blackmail, but if five hundred would keep the scurvy swine from revealing that it was he and not Nick who had fired the fatal shot, it was worth it. “I think that could be arranged,” Kit said stiffly.

  “Thank you, Lord Hatton; I hoped I could count on you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Kit murmured politely.

  “Absolutely not,” Jeremy promised.

  That same morning, Dottie Longford accompanied Alexandra to Madame Martine’s, a very chic Paris dress shop in Bond Street. “The only time Madame Martine ever saw France was on a clear day from the cliffs of Dover, but her clothes are haut monde.”

  The establishment was only a five-minute walk from Berkeley Square along Bruton Street, so Alex got to see none but fashionable shoppers like herself. The moment they crossed the shop’s threshold, they were fawned upon, and she knew Madame Martine had recognized the wealthy dowager.

  “M’granddaughter needs a gown for the Burlington House reception tonight. Something in a shade that will contrast the glorious color of her hair.”

  “Tonight, Lady Longford, mais—” Martine sounded aghast at such short notice.

  “But nothing. If you cannot accommodate us, we shall go elsewhere.”

  “Non, non, it weel be my great pleazzure,” Madame assured her.

  “Indeed it will,” Dottie agreed.

  Alex hid a smile and sat down in a fragile gilt chair to wait. A shop assistant brought out two white gowns, both of which were infinitely suitable for a young debutante.

  “We don’t want white.” Dottie waved a dismissive hand.

  “But Lady Longford, white ees in such good taste.”

  “I deplore good taste; it’s so lacking in courage.”

  The assistant took away the white and brought out a pink gown and another in a subtle shade of lavender. Alex tried on the latter and stood before the mirror to see if the gown liked her as much as she liked it. Tiny knife-pleats of chiffon fell from its high waist, and when she walked the effect of light and shadow made the material change color. Her eyes lit up and she was just about to say that this was the gown she wanted, when she saw Dottie place a cautionary finger to her lips.

  “Mmm, it might do,” Dottie said doubtfully, “but it obviously lacks something. I suppose we’ll take it,” she pointed her ebony stick, “if you throw in that violet wrap you have on display.”

  Madame Martine, seeing her profit fly out the window, protested, “But, Lady Longford, that ees the finest cashmere!”

  “I should think so … none of your rubbishy stuff for us. A couple of pairs of long kid gloves wouldn’t be amiss. Don’t lollygag about; wrap ’em up! We can’t dillydally all day. We’ll be back for a fitting for a full wardrobe when we have more time.”

  When they got outside the shop, Alex said, “Thank you for the gown and the lovely cashmere wrap. You are a shrewd shopper.”

  “I love to haggle. Had an ancestor who was a famous rug thief at a bazaar, or was it an ancestor who was famous for being bizarre? I forget which.”

  Just as they arrived back at Berkeley Square, Rupert was about to go riding in Hyde Park to see if Kit Hatton was there, since he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him for two days. When he saw Alexandra’s dress box, however, his eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Madame Martine’s, begod! The most expensive shop in Bond Street!”

  “Do keep a civil tongue in your head when you address the ladies of the family and where they shop.” Dottie looked him up and down and stared pointedly at his expensive riding breeches, weskit, and jacket. “Bond Street is no more pricey than Savile Row, I warrant.” She pointed her stick in the direction of the breakfast room. “I’d like a word, Rupert.”

  Dutifully, he sought the breakfast room, for Dottie was too formidable for him to disobey. When she used that tone, she could render a man to cooking oil.

  Dottie closed the door and spoke frankly. “How are you coming along in the heiress department? Do you have your eye on anyone?”

  “Well, not yet … I’ve been here less than a week!”

  “According to the Bible, God created the earth in less than a week,” she said dryly. “Rupert, to keep the wolf from our door, I was able to arrange a bank loan, and I have earmarked a thousand pounds for your business venture.”

  “Business venture?” he questioned uncertainly.

  “The business of securing a rich wife, you young corkbrain! I shall give you five hundred now for your expenses, ring and such frippery and fallals, and five hundred when you are betrothed.”

  “A thousand to secure a rich wife is stretching it a bit thin.”

  “Think of it as a challenge, Rupert. You are titled, you have youth, passable looks, and are sound of wind and limb. What more could a gel want?”

  He thought of his empty pockets. “Could I have it today?”

  “I shall give you the five hundred today, if you give me your solemn word that you will not run yourself into debt. I don’t want a bum-bailiff plucking you off the street and throwing you in Fleet Prison, which is what happened to your disreputable father, for I shall have neither the means, nor the inclination, to bail you out. Now, not a word of this to Alexandra. I shall set aside a thousand for her dowry, but we cannot count on her becoming Lady Hatton for at least a year, until Christopher is out of mourning.” Dottie pointed to the door. “Off you go. Size up the birds you see in the park … and Burlington House will be fertile hunting grounds tonight; make the most of the opportunity.”

  Alexandra found herself intensely excited as the hired carriage drove along Piccadilly to Burlington House. She hadn’t seen Nicholas since she’d rushed to Curzon Street after dreaming of him in a military uniform. Nick had made a point of telling her that he wo
uld see her tonight, and she could think of nothing else.

  Rupert, his grandmother on one arm and his sister on the other, escorted them up the marble steps of the great mansion, which the Earl and Countess of Carlisle leased from the countess’s brother, Hart Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire. Dottie, resplendent in orange wig and black beaded gown, played counterpoint to Alexandra’s lavender chiffon.

  They were greeted by Hart’s grandmother, Lady Spencer, who hadn’t seen her friend since Henry Hatton’s funeral. “Dottie, we meet under happier circumstances. I missed you at Devonshire House last week.”

  Rupert spied his chance to escape, but Alex stayed beside her grandmother quietly, though inside she felt a riot of bubbling excitement. When the host and hostess stepped forward to welcome them, Alex hoped Hart’s sister Dorothy would not enquire why she hadn’t joined them at the theater, and she breathed a sigh of relief when her attention was taken by Alex’s cashmere wrap.

  Hart joined the gathering and soon spirited Alex away on the pretext of showing off Burlington House. Her glance swept the crowd for a glimpse of Nick. In the ballroom she was surprised to see Annabelle Harding and her daughter, Olivia. “Good evening, Lady Harding. Hello, Olivia.”

  “So, Lady Longford has brought you up to London early; how nice.” Annabelle’s look of vexation denied her words.

  Alex noticed that Olivia Harding, usually blooming with robust health, looked decidedly peaked.

  “Lord Harding and m’son, Harry, have disappeared into thin air. Have you seen them, Your Grace?”

  “They’re most likely in the card room, Lady Harding.” Hart bowed politely and extracted Alex and himself from their company. “I always feel slightly uncomfortable when addressed as Your Grace; I much prefer being called Hart or Harrington.”

  Alex looked up at him with an impish look on her face. “Really, Your Grace? I cannot imagine why, Your Grace.”