Her Husband's Harlot

by Grace Callaway

  "Hello, my lord," Helena said, a tad breathlessly.

  Countess Northgate beamed at her son-in-law."Harteford, you remember Lady Caroline Dewitt, my sister's daughter, do you not?"

  "Lord Harteford and I met at the wedding breakfast," Caroline said. Curtsying gracefully, she offered her hand. "But perhaps he does not remember me."

  Helena frowned at the silky, purring undertone of her cousin's voice.

  Nicholas bowed over Caroline's hand. "Of course I do, my lady."

  Helena felt a clutching sensation in her chest. Calm yourself. He is just being polite. But her teeth clenched as Caroline proceeded to engage Nicholas in witty repartee, artfully batting eyelashes all the while. Caroline gave a silvery laugh, one that conveyed to the listener how interesting he was, how manly and how intelligent. And Nicholas just stood there, like a great big ... oaf. Likely he was as besotted by Caroline's charms as all the other men in the room.

  By the time Caroline gave Nicholas a playful tap with her fan, Helena had had quite enough.

  "Harteford, where were you at supper?" The question came out more bluntly than she intended, for all three heads turned to her. Oh, well done. Compared to Caroline's tinkling, musical laughter, she sounded more like a shrew than ever.

  "Wh-What I mean to say is we missed your presence earlier," Helena said. "The turtle supper was most delicious. I am sorry you missed it."

  "Thank you for your concern," Nicholas said in the silence that followed. "I am afraid I got caught up."

  "Our Helena is such a mother hen, is she not?" Caroline gave that floaty laugh again, her light jade eyes gleaming. "She is forever looking after others. When we were girls, I recall Helena counting the tea cakes to make sure there were enough to go around. Remember how you kept those cakes under a watchful eye, Cousin?"

  Helena's cheeks flamed.

  "Helena was always partial to cream cakes," the countess agreed dreamily. "We had to tell Cook to stop preparing them for fear of Helena growing too—"

  "Mama," Helena blurted, "you were interested in the garden, were you not? Perhaps Harteford would enjoy accompanying us on a stroll. I am sure Caroline must ready herself for the performance."

  "Yes, we must see Cecily's famous ranunculus before the evening is done!" her mother exclaimed. "There are none others like it in all of London."

  Caroline's smile was feline. "Please do enjoy yourselves. I will see you after the performance, I hope?"

  The last part seemed directed at Nicholas. He bowed.

  After Caroline departed, the three made their way through the milling guests to the ballroom. They exited through the open French doors into the garden. Scores of lanterns lit the spacious, well-groomed green. A large stone fountain splashed in the middle, and a gazebo rested in the furthest corner. They followed the stepping stones, stopping here and there for the countess to admire the flower specimens. As her mother raced forward to sniff a cluster of sweet peas, Helena turned to her husband.

  "I take it you are enjoying yourself this evening, my lord." She bit her lip at the accusatory tone of her words. What was wrong with her this evening? Hopefully Nicholas would not notice.

  "You were the one who requested my presence, as I recall," her husband replied. His eyes were fathomless in the moonlight. "Was my enjoyment of it not part of your plan?"

  "Of course I want you to have a pleasurable evening." But with me, not Caroline. She felt flustered, desperately jealous as a matter of fact, but she could not tell her husband that. She studied a camellia hedge, the top of which had been pruned into the undulating shape of a wave. If only she knew how to flirt as Caroline did.

  "Is something amiss?" Nicholas inquired.

  Everything was amiss, Helena thought miserably. Her husband was flirting with Caroline. Her mother was nearing a fit of vapors. And her father ... Sweet heavens, her father. Her stomach dropped to her toes. How could she have forgotten?

  "Harteford, I must go," she said.

  "Go? Where?"

  She hesitated. She did not want to tell Nicholas the truth. In all honesty, it felt shameful—as if she was somehow betraying her father's trust. For all Papa's feckless ways, she loved him. Before Thomas' death, the Earl had been a different man, his joie de vivre expressed through his affection for his family and friends rather than at the card table. She remembered the Christmases and birthdays of her childhood overflowing with Papa's generous, larger-than-life spirit. But Nicholas had not known her father then, and she feared he would only see the Earl as he was now. A man who needed his own daughter to rein him in.

  As she debated what to say, Nicholas' brow eased as if in sudden understanding. "Ah. Well. I trust you are feeling ... well enough? I will summon the carriage if you like."

  Now it was her turn to be perplexed. "The carriage? Whatever for?"

  Nicholas looked distinctly ill-at-ease. Even in the darkness, a tinge of ruddy color could be seen on his rugged features. "For the condition which, ah, ails you."

  "To what condition do you refer?" Helena asked, truly puzzled now. "I have no problems with my health, sir."

  "However you wish to call it, I am nonetheless happy to assist you. Shall I have a servant bring you anything? Perhaps you could rest unobtrusively in the gazebo ..."

  "Whatever are you talking about?" Helena asked. "Why would I need to rest?"

  A pained expression crossed over Nicholas' face. "I am sure there is no need to entertain the specifics."

  "I am finding this conversation most baffling," Helena said.

  "That is one way to put it," her husband muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

  "Look at the ranunculus!" the countess exclaimed.

  As her mother darted toward the prized collection, Helena took a deep breath and said, "I need to fetch my father. That is what I am talking about."

  "Your father. I see." Nicholas cleared his throat.

  "And what topic were you addressing, my lord?"

  Her husband appeared discomfited. "Nothing of import. In fact, it has quite escaped me now."

  Helena eyed him doubtfully. "But a minute ago you were—"

  "Why must you fetch him?" Nicholas asked. "Your father, that is."

  Helena traced the stepping stone with the tip of her slipper. Could she trust him not to judge her father too harshly? Meeting Nicholas' intent gaze, she said, "He is in the card room at present."

  The heat rose in her face, and she prayed she would have to say no more. How appalling it would be to have to explain that one's father could not control his gambling habits and that one had to intercede on his behalf. At the same time, she felt guilty for exposing her father's weakness—even if it was to her own husband, who in reality must know something of the problem.

  Helena was aware that Nicholas had assisted with the Northgate debts as part of the marriage settlement. From her mother's recent letters, brimming with descriptions of new millinery and furnishings, Helena had gleaned that all had returned to normal on the estate. Papa had even purchased a new carriage and a pair of chestnuts to lead it with. But now, to admit that her father had not changed his ways, even after so narrow an escape from ruin ...

  "I wished to ask him about a specific matter," she said in as bright a tone as she could muster, "and had forgotten about it until this moment. Would you mind escorting my mother until I return?"

  She made to leave, but was stopped by Nicholas' hand on her arm.

  "I have not yet spoken to your father this evening," he said. "Allow me the honor of paying my respects."

  Helena shook her head in misery. "But I must find him. You see, he is—"

  "I shall find him and bring him to you and Lady Northgate directly." Nicholas dropped his hand, but he looked steadily into her eyes.

  Helena felt her knees weaken. From his brief touch, yes, but more so from the relief that threatened to bring tears to her eyes. It had been so long since she'd had a shoulder to lean on—not since Thomas in fact.

  "D-do you think you could persua
de him ...?" she asked shakily.

  "Give me ten minutes," her husband said, "before rejoining you in the music room."

  EIGHT

  Nicholas strode off in the direction of the card room. Damn and blast Northgate. The man could no more resist a hand of whist than a drunkard could a bottle of blue ruin. At this rate, Northgate would soon be back flailing in a bog of arrears. Nicholas did not particularly care if his father-in-law ended up in the Fleet—it would probably do the earl good to see what happened to a man, even a peer of the realm, who failed to honor his debts. That was justice, pure and simple.

  What did infuriate him was the worry darkening Helena's countenance, the slump of her shoulders as she bore the brunt of her father's reckless behavior. Northgate was oblivious to the shame and ruin he was about to bring down on his own head; Helena was not. Despite her demure appearance, she was a loyal little thing. His lips curved grimly. Brave or foolhardy, as well, depending on how one looked at it. How exactly was she planning to extricate her sire from the gaming tables? She was too slight to do it by force, too innocent to resort to other means.

  Since he was neither slight nor innocent, he did not anticipate any trouble whatsoever.

  Nicholas entered the gaming parlor, where the guests milled around the half-dozen occupied card tables. He spotted Northgate immediately. Seated with cards in hand, the earl wore a burgundy velvet jacket, and his face was a matching florid shade under his whiskers. His typically jovial expression was replaced by a feral look. His eyes moved furiously around in their sockets, like a beast that had been cornered. Nicholas heaved an irritated breath. No wonder the man ruined himself at cards. He was an easy mark if there ever was one.

  Ignoring the looks aimed in his direction, Nicholas made his way to the table. He returned the stiff nods of two gentlemen who did not quite meet his gaze. His mouth thinned. Two weeks ago in his office, Yardley and Caverstock had been much friendlier when they received news that their investments in a Fines and Company venture had tripled in value. To his recollection, they had all but tripped over themselves in their eagerness to shake his hand. But now, under the watchful eyes of the ton, they could afford little more than a fractional inclination of the head. Nicholas understood the unspoken rules.

  One did not socialize, after all, with the help.

  He circled the table once, stopping at Northgate's side. He kept his expression neutral even as he gave another inward sigh. He hoped Northgate had not wagered a vast sum on this particular hand.

  But, of course, the bloody fool had.

  Nicholas waited until the table had been cleared and the earl scribbled his vowels. Nicholas almost snorted. The promissory note was worth less than the paper it was written on. He should know, as he oversaw Northgate's accounts. It had been a stipulation on his part (and a damned prudent one) that if he was to resolve the earl's debts, the earl would have to answer to him in all matters financial. He did not wish to make a habit of bailing his father-in-law out of trouble. It would be like sailing a hole-filled dinghy with nothing but a bucket in hand.

  "Good evening, Northgate." Nicholas clamped a hand on the earl's shoulder. The old man jumped in his seat, so focused had he been on the deck of cards about to be dealt.

  "Harteford," Northgate sputtered. "What the blazes are you doing here?"

  "I could ask you the same thing," Nicholas said, keeping his voice low. "Be that as it may, this is a musicale, and I am here escorting my wife and yours. I've come to invite you to join our group as the ladies desire your presence."

  Northgate turned even ruddier. "Good God, man. I cannot abandon my partner in the middle of a game. Besides, this next hand is to be my lucky one, I can feel it in my bones. Tell the ladies I'll be there shortly." He turned back to the table.

  "You are wanted immediately." Ignoring the tittering of the other players, Nicholas spoke in a tone that booked no refusal. "I am sure your presence here will be excused."

  "I do not want to leave," Northgate said stubbornly.

  "I say, it is most ungentlemanly to stand between a man and his cards," the middle-aged man across the table drawled. "You should know better, Harteford."

  There was a twitter of laughter.

  Nicholas felt his fist bunch at his side, but he ignored the jibe. He had better things to do than waste time on the likes of Sir Danvers Jacoby, heir to an ancient baronetcy and known profligate. He focused his attention instead on Northgate. The earl's velvet-clad shoulders were hunched over the table, as if he planned to stay there awhile. As if he had every right to wager money that was not his. As if he could do as he chose and damn the consequences to others. Cold rage spread through Nicholas' veins. He leaned over and spoke tersely near the earl's ear.

  Northgate's eyes widened.

  "Northgate, are you in?" Jacoby asked, deck in manicured hand.

  "No, I'm afraid not," the earl said. He shot a nasty look at Nicholas. "Harteford here reminds me of other duties."

  "Duties at a time like this? Harteford, do stop being such a killjoy. In fact, why don't you take Northgate's place and lighten your purse a little." Jacoby adjusted the diamond studs on his cuff, smirking as he added, "How dreary it must be to carry all those bags of coin around. A hazard of the merchant profession, I suppose."

  Remain calm, Nicholas told himself, as mocking laughter surrounded him. How he would love to plant a facer on Jacoby's arrogant, grinning face. His palms actually tingled with longing. At this moment, he could imagine no greater joy than knocking the bugger off his high horse.

  But he would not. He had learned early on in the ton that responding to the subtle taunts and underhanded cracks only made matters worse. That was why they bear-baited him in the first place—they hoped for some uncivilized response they could further ridicule. So they could poke at him with their pointed insults and barbed wit. At heart, Mayfair was no different from the stews he'd grown up in. The fine lords and ladies were just as savage, thirsting for blood at every turn. Well, he'd be damned if he gave them that pleasure.

  "I am afraid I haven't the time." Nicholas bowed mockingly and raised a brow at Northgate. With a petulant turn to his mouth, the earl got up. Nicholas could hear the excited whispering behind them as they made their way out of the card room.

  "That was deuced embarrassing," Northgate hissed, as soon as they reached the hallway. "I will never again be able to hold my head high in front of those people."

  "And you would be able to do so, living on Fleet Street?" Nicholas inquired in tones of granite. "You think your friends will be visiting you there, in the debtors' slums?"

  Northgate's face approached an apoplectic purple. "That is preposterous! I am the Earl of Northgate. I would never find myself in such a position. How dare you suggest—"

  "That is exactly the point. I do dare." Nicholas inclined his head politely as a couple walked past.

  Northgate's expression froze into a grin that bordered on frightening. Once the couple was out of earshot, he said furiously, "Show some respect, sirrah. You are my son-in-law and therefore obliged to respect—"

  "Respect this, my lord." Nicholas' voice was dangerously soft. "Everything you currently own, from the bricks of your manor house to the stitches on your back, belongs to me. Every rent you collect goes towards repaying your debt to me. Every pound, every bloody guinea you blow on the cards, comes from my pocket. You are living on my good graces, Northgate, and I swear to you that at the moment they are wearing thin."

  Northgate paled.

  "I do not wish to repeat this conversation, so let me make myself very clear," Nicholas continued. His eyes bored into his father-in-law's rapidly blinking orbs. "You will not receive so much as another farthing from me if you continue to game. I will cut you off. Completely."

  "Y-you would not dare," Northgate whispered. "Helena would never allow—"

  "Helena will know nothing of it," Nicholas said, "unless you wish to inform your daughter that you have gambled away the earldom's assets. That the only
thing standing between you and ruin is the coin of a merchant."

  Northgate swallowed. "You heartless bastard."

  Nicholas smiled without humor. "That I am."

  A bell could be heard ringing once, twice, three times.

  "The programme is about to begin," Nicholas said, with a mocking lift of the brow. "Now that the matter is settled, we would not want to be late, would we?"

  Rage blazed in Northgate's eyes. "God as my witness, I will see you pay for this! May you rot in hell, you bastard." Turning on his heel, he stormed away.

  Nicholas consulted his watch fob and followed at a more leisurely pace. Sixteen minutes. It had taken six minutes more than he had promised Helena, but not bad, considering the task he had accomplished. He might have felt pleased with himself, too, had it not been for the throbbing at his left temple. He was reminded of the reason he avoided Society's playground in the first place: the ton gave him a pounding headache.

  Nonetheless, he took his place in the line of guests waiting to enter the music room. Several ladies studied him discreetly above their waving fans—gathering fuel, no doubt, for drawing room gossip. He was certain they could content themselves for days doling out the details of the Makeshift Marquess and how his lowly origins betrayed him.

  He did not bother to avert his gaze when a particularly bold lady ogled him as she might an exotic artifact at the British Museum. Like he was some of sort of grotesque Sphinx, offensive to the sensibilities yet all the more titillating because of it. When her eyes met his, he returned her look for look, his mouth curling derisively. She gasped and turned her head. Moments later, she was squawking in the ear of her companion, whose feathers quivered with excitement.

  They could go to hell, every bloody last one of them.

  By the time he reached the door, the music had begun. He noted with growing irritation that the Dewitts had not planned for the size of the crowd for there were more guests than chairs. He found a space at the back of the room and tried to ignore the giant pulsing vein that had taken residence in his head. Scanning the seated audience, he located Helena sitting between her parents in one of the middle rows. She was turned to her right, her profile exposed to him. Northgate was whispering in her ear. From the emphatic gestures and contorted expression, Northgate was clearly furious.