by Lynn Kerstan
In the early days of her marriage to a soldier, Mrs. Bellwood had followed her husband from one temporary, primitive lodging to the next, washing his clothes and cooking whatever she could scavenge for his meals. When he was killed in a skirmish of no consequence, she returned to her father’s property and cared for him during his last illness. After that she lived alone, making friends among the few residents of the area and supplying posthouses and manor houses from her gardens, until she caught the Earl of Sothingdon’s eye. They had been lovers for three years, but she refused to accept a penny from him and was careful not to draw attention to their relationship.
“Some people require proof of love,” she had said, pouring Jessica a cup of strong tea. “Some demand formalities, legalities, and permanence. I have no quarrel with those things. But I find my true happiness in the life I make for myself, and add to it the love given me freely, sometimes sparingly, by your father. My late husband, chained by his duties, could offer no more than that, and I ask no more from Sothingdon.”
“But don’t you have a right to more?” Jessica had demanded, thinking of herself.
“Perhaps. But one cannot force another to give what he does not have, or is not willing to part with.”
Chastened, Jessica turned the conversation to Mariah and her troubles with Gerald. Mrs. Bellwood had noticed, and been alarmed, but felt it was not her place to interfere. Even so, she agreed to provide Mariah a refuge if she required one. “And Sothingdon, while stubborn, can be got around,” she added with a fond smile. “While I cannot meddle, I’ve no objection to a bit of manipulation.”
Jessica had started out for home lighter of heart, until she passed by the spot where she and the enigmatic valet had launched their prayer boats. Ever since, subdued and puzzled by the story he had told her, she had been unable to forget the desperate princess and the dying prince and the Lord of Death.
They haunted her still as she lay across her bed, listening to the small sounds coming from the passageway and the adjacent room. The gentlemen had returned from the day’s shooting, and the particular gentleman who obsessed her was right next door. It might be Pageter making those sounds, of course. Probably the both of them.
Rousing herself, she rang for a maid and began to strip off her dusty walking gown. Perhaps she would go to dinner dressed in her finest and let Duran watch her ignore him while he wondered when she would give him her answer and what it would be. He knew her well enough to understand that either way, she’d make a grand production of it.
And he would enjoy the drama. Play along and give her credit for her performance. Would never insist she behave by any standards but her own.
Oh, dear God. How could she tell him no?
Such nonsense. Of course she could. Easily. With aplomb. Without regret.
After all, he’d offered only a paltry three weeks of marriage. Why bother? Three weeks was scarcely enough time to require a fresh paring of her toenails. Although, come to think of it, it was precisely the amount of time they’d spent together as lovers.
Well, at least he was consistent.
She was just about to ring for her maid when Mariah arrived at the door, distressed. “Where have you been all day? Aubrey kept asking for you.”
“Aubrey!” Jessica stifled an oath that would have shocked her sister. “If he brought along that widowed vicar, the one he keeps foisting on me, I shall throttle them both.”
“No vicar. He came alone. Papa wrote, saying we were in residence, and he took the opportunity to see us.”
“To read us the ceremonial lecture, you mean. Have you had yours?”
“Some of it. He left out the part about my failure to provide Gerald with heirs, and seemed a trifle distracted. Then, while I was taking a nap, he had an accident.”
“Dear me.” Jessica sank onto a chair. “What happened?”
“A heavy mirror in his room came loose and fell on his head. He landed on his face, and his jaw is swollen and purple. Rather like a Christmas pudding, actually.” Mariah produced an embarrassed grin. “I think the blow addled his brains, because he told Papa that Lord Duran had hit him. Which he could not have done, of course, because by the time Aubrey went upstairs to his room, where he was injured, Lord Duran was well on his way back to London.”
“Wh-what?” Jessica felt as if she too had taken a blow. A hard one.
Again. He’d done it again! Gone off without a word. Because he’d realized she wasn’t going to help him sell that stolen icon, she supposed. And figured she wouldn’t marry him, either, meaning he couldn’t trade on the good name of his wife.
It shouldn’t hurt. She refused to let it hurt.
Mariah was speaking again. “. . . Pageter said a message was delivered this afternoon, summoning him immediately to London. Or to somewhere. The destination was unspecified. At first Papa was furious that Lord Duran had not left so much as a note of explanation, but Colonel Pageter calmed him down. He’s good at that.” Her lips curved into a rare smile. “We should set him to work on Aubrey.”
Jessica studied her fingernails. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Above all things, do not feel. “A good idea,” she said too cheerfully. “But I don’t wish to see him. Aubrey, I mean, even though he’s hurt. He grates on my nerves, and I would probably say something awful to him. Besides, I’ve had a summons of my own, from Helena, and must attend to a matter of business. I shall leave first thing in the morning.”
“Oh.” Mariah’s arms curled around her narrow chest. “For London?”
The gesture, silently plaintive, reminded Jessica how insignificant, in comparison, were her own troubles. She rose and crossed to where her sister was still standing by the door, as if uncertain of her welcome in Jessica’s room. “You are not to worry,” she said. “I’m sorry to leave you to cope with Aubrey, but you mustn’t let him browbeat you. Think of it as practice for handling Gerald. Although if he is still in London, I intend to deal with him myself.”
“But how? You mustn’t provoke him. It will make him angry.”
“I don’t mind. And besides, he requires no provocation to be out of temper. Never mind Gerald. I want you to stay at High Tor, and should he come to fetch you, sneak out of the house and go immediately to Mrs. Bellwood. I visited her today, and she’s as worried about you as I am. She will keep you safe until he can be made harmless.”
“There is nothing can stop him, Jessica. But I shall do as you say, I promise, if only because I cannot bear any longer to do as Gerald says.”
The small light in Mariah’s eyes was only that, the barest of glimmers, but it was a beginning. And a challenge.
Precisely what they both needed, Jessica decided when Mariah had gone. A challenge, and in her own case, someone else’s problems to solve so that she wouldn’t have to confront her own.
After making arrangements for an early-morning departure, she focused all her attention on the problem of extracting Mariah from her husband. Seated at her desk, increasingly discouraged as the night wore on, she jotted down every harebrained scheme that hopped into her head. She even wondered if Shivaji the Assassin could be persuaded to hire himself out, and what would be the price of his services.
At that point she put down her pen and stoppered the ink bottle. Never mind his arcane tales about the Lord of Death. The man was an inconsequential valet. At most, he could give Gerald a shave and iron his cravats.
On the positive side, she had passed several hours without once thinking of Duran.
Oh very well. Not one thought, but a dozen. Per hour. But that was better than she’d expected when first she learned he had done a moonlight flit. She was angry, that was all, and not at him. He wasn’t worth that much effort. No, she was furious with herself for letting him slip past her defenses and . . . what?
It didn’t matter. He was gone. More distant, more irrelevant, than when he’d been in India. The next time he crept into her thoughts, she’d fling him out again.
Chapter 15
Accompanied
by her prim and acerbic secretary, Jessica spent two days and evenings paying calls on people at the fringes of respectability, trying to track down her brother-in-law. There were only so many places a gentleman could be found in London at this time of year, and fewer still that would permit the likes of Sir Gerald Talbot to cross the threshold.
It was Helena, using the mysterious network that connects servants throughout the city, who discovered that Gerald had weaseled his way into Beata Neri’s circle.
Jessica admired Beata, a woman whose disregard for convention debarred her from the first ranks of society. After seeing three aged and wealthy husbands to their graves, she had set herself up on Paradise Row and opened her doors to people she found interesting.
There were plenty of doors in Beata’s immense villa. Decorated in the Italian Renaissance style that suited her own striking looks, it was a rabbit warren of passageways and rooms suitable for private meetings. Now and again she entertained the Chosen with a masquerade ball, a play, or a concert in the large salons, but most of the people who came to Palazzo Neri came there to gamble, do business, or talk. Mostly talk.
Her hospitality embraced scholars and soldiers, actors and scientists, gamesters and poets. Aristocrats dipping their white-gloved fingers into trade met there with associates more than a little rough around the edges. In back rooms, politicians made deals with the opposition only to undercut them in other back rooms. Everyone of importance came to Beata’s, if they were lucky enough to secure her favor.
Which is why Jessica was astonished to learn that Gerald was indeed in the house, last seen entering the gaming room reserved for those who played deep.
“Oh, because he brought along an irresistible passport,” Beata said, reading in her eyes the question she had not asked. “Sir Gerald is a toad, of course, but every pond must have one. How else are the others to feel superior? Come. We shall retrieve him.”
“I don’t want to put his back up,” Jessica said. “Not yet.”
“Then wait for him in the Sala Dei Medici. He must pass through when he leaves, which will be in a short time. I am told he is losing heavily.”
Helena was already there, wearing her smoky glasses and seated on a brocade sofa next to Beata’s companion. Jessica thought of joining them, but chose instead an isolated chair in a dim corner where she could think. Having got this far, with Gerald all but wriggling in her net, she still hadn’t the least idea what to do with him.
She was no closer to a solution an hour later, when male voices punctuated with laughter signaled that the game had broken up. Men filtered into the parlor, most pausing to speak with Beata, who held court on an ornate chair placed where the light was most flattering. Opulent and sensual in scarlet Luccha velvet, she might have emerged from a Caravaggio painting.
Jessica was watching a skinny gallant kiss Beata’s hand when Gerald’s drawling voice sounded beside her.
“Ah, sister. I had thought you still at High Tor. Isn’t that what you told me, Duran?”
Duran!
With Gerald.
Serpent and toad.
Her toes curled in her slippers, as if that could keep her anchored to the floor.
Duran approached her and bowed. “It is the nature of ladies to change their minds,” he said, paling slightly when she glared at him. “How fortunate for us that she did.”
“Why would you think so?” she inquired, rising. “What have I to do with either of you?”
“Oh, oh, I know her in this mood,” Gerald said, wagging his finger. “Even Wellington would call a retreat.”
Jessica arched a brow. He was drunk, and displeased, and playacting good humor. It wasn’t difficult to guess why. “Lost a great deal, have you? I hope, Duran, that you don’t expect him to pay.”
“Of course I do.” Duran turned his beguiling smile on Gerald. “Gaming debts are the first responsibility of a gentleman. But naturally, he must be given time to secure the funds from his banker.”
“Yesh, yesh. No hurry, what? Besides, tomorrow night I could win it all back.”
“To be sure. The money, after all, is only a means of keeping score. It’s the action we crave.”
“Children at their games,” Jessica said. “If ever you sober up and have a spare moment, Gerald, I have a business proposition for you. Perhaps not exactly what you wish for, but you did express interest in a partnership of sorts. If you still wish to discuss it, make an appointment with my secretary.”
“P-partners don’t make appointments,” he said, bristling.
“I beg your pardon.” She was trying to reel him in, not drive him away. “It’s only that I am scheduled to meet with a number of clients, and Helena keeps my calendar. She’s over there, if you care to speak with her.”
“I’ll give it some thought. Or maybe I’ll drop in on you whenever it suits me. Don’t forget, Jessica. I’m family. Mariah wouldn’t be happy if you put me off.”
Before she could parry that open threat, Duran had taken Gerald by the elbow and was steering him across the parlor and out the door. She waited a few moments to be sure they were gone, and then she hurried in the opposite direction, to a quiet ladies’ retiring room in a part of the house reserved for secretive meetings. At this time of year, with most important people gone from London, no one was likely to be there.
In the stuffy room she sat on a low ottoman, her face buried in her hands, and fought tears that wanted, of their own volition, to be cried. For her part, she wanted nothing to do with them or the wave of loneliness that had swept over her the moment she saw Duran in company with her greatest enemy.
There was no sense to it. She had lived all but a few weeks of her life without him. And yet, God help her, that brief interval was the only time she had ever felt truly alive. The only time she had not consciously played a role to gain favor.
She wore disguises all the time now, but they never seemed to be the appropriate disguises. Her friends, most of them, would like her a great deal better were she more conservative, more pliable, more normal. Her family, most of them, would see her properly married and in all things dutiful. Her clients, most of them, wanted her to be, on their behalf, greedy and ruthless.
But Duran—irresponsible, unreliable Duran—accepted all her moods. Never sought to change her. Because she was sufficiently useful as she was, she supposed. Why bother to change a woman he didn’t mean to keep?
But in his company, she never felt inadequate, or guilty, or lonely. That was something, wasn’t it?
No. It was nothing at all, if he didn’t want her.
She dampened a cloth, mopped her face with it, and straightened her skirts. He had cut up her peace, but the fault was hers for permitting it. She kept bidding him good-bye—after he’d already gone, of course—and the rascal kept popping up again. The obvious solution was to ignore him altogether.
But when she opened the door, there he was, filling the space with a hand propped against each side of the casing, blocking her way.
Impossible to ignore.
“I wish you would cease accosting me in doorways,” she said, giving him her best schoolmistress glower. “If you force me to call for assistance, Beata’s large footmen will throw you out on your ear.”
“I’ve called for their assistance myself, as a matter of fact. It required a pair of them to wrestle Talbot into a hackney.” He took a step back. “I confess to being astonished that you mean to take him into partnership.”
“Take? He is coercing me. If I pretend to go along, I may be able to dictate the terms, or at least keep him under control.”
“What do you want to happen, Jessica? You know that I am looking for something to exchange for your assistance. Perhaps I can help.”
Her very thought. Or it had been, during the intervals of madness when she’d talked herself into imagining she could trust him. No more. Not again. “Indeed you can,” she said. “Go away, far away, and take him with you. That would solve any number of problems.”
“Exc
ept mine.”
“True,” she said sweetly. “One cannot have everything.”
“No. I have realized that. You intended to decline my proposal, I am sure, but I expected you to do it in person.”
“I meant to. But there was the small matter of you not being there.”
“That was unfortunate and, I assure you, beyond my control. Still, I left you my direction. You might have got in touch with me. Sent a message.”
“You left me nothing. I returned from an errand, and you were gone.”
He frowned. Paused. “I slipped a note under your door,” he finally said. “And the first time we stopped to change horses, I dispatched a letter from the posthouse.”
“Did you? But why do I ask? The Disappearing Note that Would Explain All. The Letter Gone Missing. You have been reading Minerva novels, Duran. And even if I believed you, I wouldn’t care. You left, and I want you to stay away. Surely that is clear enough.”
“Even if I can render Talbot harmless? In case you failed to notice, I’ve already made a start.”
“By putting him in your debt? You and half of London can claim that achievement. But what’s the use of it? He can’t be thrown into prison, and his family connections prevent him from being hounded to the Continent by his creditors. Never mind that the family would be pleased to see the last of him.”
“I could hound him,” Duran said. “I can be persuaded. Would you like to try? Not here, of course, if you don’t wish to be seen in my company.” His gaze became intense. “Remember how I used to come to you, Jessica? Unlatch the window tonight.”
Her heart pounded in response, like a hopeful girl’s.
Like a stupid girl’s.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said. “Besides, you told me that you are watched wherever you go. Will your valet permit you to stay out so late?”
“I don’t know. But at this point, with nothing going well, he might extend my leash. I’ll go ask him, Jessie. You go open your window. And, if you can, your mind.”