Her Husband's Harlot

by Grace Callaway

  Madame Rousseau intervened with a subtle cough. "Alors, I believe I comprehend the problem. My lady, she wishes to display her beauty to an advantage. My lord, he appreciates his wife's beauty, but perhaps wishes more of it might be kept to his own private enjoyment. This is true, yes?"

  "That about captures it," Nicholas said. "I will not have my wife, the Marchioness of Harteford, dressed like a common—"

  "Yes, yes, my lord, I do believe I understand," Madame Rousseau interjected, but Nicholas' gaze remained steady on Helena's.

  "You are mine, and I will not allow what is mine to be bandied about like cheap inventory."

  Helena's jaw dropped. For a moment, red spots danced before her eyes.

  "Of all the arrogant, high-handed, insulting ..."

  "Call me what you will, but you belong to me," her husband said. "Do not forget that."

  "I am not a piece of ... of inventory, yours or otherwise!"

  "Please, my lady, my lord, if I may suggest a compromise?"

  Helena's rapid breaths strained her bodice as she focused on the modiste. She had nearly forgotten the woman's presence. She forced herself to count to ten. "Yes, well, what is it?"

  "Perhaps a small, how do you say, negotiation might be in order?"

  A tense silence greeted the dressmaker's suggestion. Nicholas sat brooding in the chair. Helena raised her brow, and Madame Rousseau sighed, her eyes darting between her clients. She turned Helena to face the mirror again.

  "The gown, it would be a small matter to elevate the neckline, say three inches?"

  "It is not nearly enough," Nicholas said.

  "'Tis too much," Helena said at the same time.

  Madame Rousseau sighed again. "The integrity of the gown, it will be maintained. Lady Harteford, you will be très fashionable. This you have on the highest authority—my own. Look again, if you please."

  Helena looked into the glass. The modiste's fingers drifted a fraction upward. Although reluctant, she was forced to admit that Madame Rousseau had a point. The alteration was not so great. Truth be told, her breasts were a trifle exposed; having those inches of added protection would allay her worries about potential malfunctions of the bodice. More to the point, it would not damage her principles overly to agree to such a change. Perhaps it might even teach her bull-headed husband a thing or two about compromise.

  She gave a stiff nod.

  "It is not enough," Nicholas repeated.

  Helena crossed her arms.

  "Ah, but my lord, the gown will now display your lady's charms most modestly," Madame said in tones smooth as morning chocolate. "Especially when compared to what she will wear for your private tête- à-têtes."

  "I beg your pardon?" Helena said, frowning.

  Madame Rousseau crossed over to a work table piled high with bolts of cloth. She returned with a roll of black material. With obvious care, she unrolled a length and held it up for Nicholas' inspection.

  Helena blinked. The material was not cloth at all, but lace. Black lace so diaphanous she could see the considering expression crossing her husband's face.

  "This is the finest lace from Belgium, my lord," Madame Rousseau murmured. "A clever needle it takes to create magic with it, but of that I am possessed. I envision a negligee. Something simple, you understand, unfettered, for your wife to wear during quiet evenings at home. And stockings to match, of course."

  Nicholas cleared his throat. "Stockings, you say?"

  "Of the sheerest black silk," Madame responded. "And, if I may suggest, satin garters, also black, ornamented with, shall we say, bows of scarlet ribbon?"

  "This is outrageous," Helena muttered.

  Nicholas shifted his gaze to her. The silver gleam set her stomach aflutter.

  "By all means, then, let us negotiate," he said.

  *****

  Nodding to an acquaintance, Nicholas circulated the crowded room in search of his wife. He smiled with satisfaction when he spotted her standing in a small circle. She wore one of her new gowns, an elegant burgundy garment with a demure ruffle along the neckline. He still thought her breasts enticed too much; when she spoke, he noticed the gentlemen around her paid more attention to her bosom than her words. Yet compared to the other ladies present, he had to admit she cut a modest figure. At least, on the surface.

  He alone knew what she wore beneath.

  Those delightful undergarments, compliments of Madame Rousseau, had delayed their arrival to the salon by over an hour.

  Negotiation, he was discovering, had its benefits.

  "Lord Harteford, well met. How's the head?"

  He turned at the sound of the thick Scottish brogue.

  "Dr. Farraday." He shook hands with the physician. "I did not expect to see you here."

  "I might say the same for you. Thought you weren't much for society affairs."

  "I'm not, usually. My wife favors this particular salon," Nicholas said.

  "Say no more, lad. 'Tis a wise man who knows when to retreat." Dr. Farraday bestowed upon him a sympathetic look. "Now, myself, I come from time to time to hear the lectures. The Misses Berry always invite the cream of the crop of learned minds. Such a wide variety of topics are presented, and most of them quite scintillating. What made you of tonight's discussion concerning the habits of native birds?"

  "We missed it, I'm afraid."

  The doctor's grey brows drew together. "I am sorry for you, lad. 'Tis a pity to miss so fascinating a subject."

  To be honest, Nicholas did not feel so sorry for himself. He'd wager the bank that he'd enjoyed himself better than the poor sods stuck here listening to the mating calls of pheasants. After all, he'd been occupied with mating behavior of his own. Heat flared at the memory of a certain corset, red as cherries, the way it had framed his wife's ...

  "Though I am but an amateur naturalist," Dr. Farraday said, "you must allow me to elucidate some facts for you."

  Nicholas made a noncommittal sound, but it was too late; Dr. Farraday had launched into a recitation of the lecture. Nodding politely, Nicholas let his mind wander over the past weeks with Helena. For the first time in memory, he was experiencing a buoyant lightness of being. As if the stones he had hefted all his life had dropped magically from his shoulders. Aye, joy. Not just from the lovemaking, either. The talking, the laughter, the companionship of body and mind—he had not thought such closeness with another human being possible. At times, he fancied he and Helena shared the fabric of a single soul.

  ". . . to be distinguished from the brown grouse, which has flecks rather than stripes of white ..."

  At other times, fear would creep up upon him. He could not stop the irrational worries that would suddenly cloud his mind. What if something were to happen to Helena? What if she should change her mind, see him for what he was? Never before had he felt a need for another the way he did for her—as if his happiness, his very life, depended upon her love and affection. He felt consumed by possessiveness and a primal need to bind her to him in every manner possible. As a consequence, he found himself acting the role of the over-bearing husband, scrutinizing her dress and her companions, hovering over her like a hawk. Sighing, he could only imagine what she thought of his behavior.

  "I can see your sympathy for the hatchlings," Dr. Farraday continued. "Yet, one must also consider the design of nature, for an offspring to one is sustenance for another ..."

  Overall, Nicholas thought, Helena had tolerated him with admirable patience. He best not press his luck concerning her décolletage this evening.

  "Harteford, there you are." Helena came up beside him. Her fingers brushed his upper arm. Beneath the jacket, his muscles leapt in response. Her touch stirred him as no other's had or ever would.

  "My love," he said. "You remember Dr. Farraday."

  "Yes, of course. Good evening, sir."

  "A pleasure, my lady." The physician bowed, a stiff, military movement.

  "How kind of you to say so," Helena said. "I am afraid I was rather overwrought at our l
ast meeting."

  "No need to explain, my lady," Dr. Farraday said. "Circumstances being such as they were."

  "Such as they were," Helena agreed. "Yet I do apologize for any unseemly behavior on my part. My husband could not have been in more capable hands."

  Dr. Farraday's posture relaxed. "Thank you, my lady. I, too, am glad to see Lord Harteford's full recovery."

  "And, now, you must allow me to introduce you both to my dear friends, the Misses Haversham," Helena said.

  As his wife made the introductions, Nicholas' gaze returned subtly to her neckline. He felt his blood begin to simmer all over again. He had a mind to get his wife alone in the not-too- distant future. Alone and naked.

  "Harteford, you must defend me. I am outnumbered."

  The doctor's desperate voice dragged his focus back to the conversation. Standing between the Havershams, Dr. Farraday looked like a tiger cornered by kittens.

  "There is no defense for your statement, sirrah," Miss Lavinia Haversham said. She rapped the physician on the knuckles with her fan. Her eyes blazed in her time-worn face. "A female ring-necked pheasant is as capable of protecting her chicks as the male is! More so, I daresay. Am I not right, Sister?"

  The other Miss Haversham gave a vigorous nod.

  "I meant only to assert that the male is larger in size and therefore ..."

  "What has size got to do with anything?" Miss Lavinia demanded.

  A choked sound escaped Dr. Farraday.

  Nicholas stifled a laugh. Out of the mouths of spinsters ...

  An elbow wedged against his ribs.

  "You are absolutely right, Miss Haversham," Helena said, frowning at him. "'Tis the size of the intellect, not the brute, that matters."

  "Exactly my point, Lady Harteford," Miss Lavinia said.

  Nicholas thought that if Miss Haversham became any more indignant, the smoke rising from her steely curls might blast her lace cap clear and away. Farraday might have been of a similar mind, for the doctor wisely stepped beyond the range of her gesticulating fan.

  "The mother pheasant uses her sense to defeat the predator," Miss Lavinia persevered. "Why, what could be cleverer, more effective, than faking a broken wing to detract from the brood nearby?"

  The moment her words pierced his consciousness, all traces of humor vanished.

  Bloody hell.

  The truth—had it been staring him in the face all along?

  *****

  Three nights later, Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck and stood, stretching his cramped muscles. The window reflected pure darkness; not even the barges were visible, though he felt their omnipresence beneath the layers of night and fog. Removing the watch fob from his waistcoat, he traced his thumb over the filigreed cover. He was inordinately proud of this new ornament. A fine piece it was, made finer by the engraving inside.

  To my husband, with love.

  The tiny golden arms winked in the lamplight and indicated the time as half past seven. He had been so absorbed in his perusal of Kent's notes that he had not noticed the lateness of the hour. After he had shared his new theory concerning the warehouse thefts with Kent, the latter had made good on his reputation as a relentless pursuer of justice.

  In the past two days, the inspector had personally interviewed all the merchants of the West India Dock and quite a few workers as well. He had taken copious notes, for a single detail might lead to the suspect. Nicholas himself had spent the bulk of the day reviewing Kent's organized files. Captured somewhere within the neat rows of ink was the key to a mystery—he could feel it in his bones.

  A scuffling noise outside the office had Nicholas tensing. He jerked around as the door creaked open, his gaze flashing to the bottom desk drawer where he stored his pistol. His hand shot to the brass pull.

  "Lord Harteford! Begging your pardon, I did not think you were still here."

  Nicholas exhaled and straightened, his hand falling to the side. ""Quite alright, Jibotts. You gave me a start that is all. Why are you not yet home?"

  "Finishing up on the Rigby account, my lord," Jibotts said, mopping at his brow with the usual tattered handkerchief. Even in the golden glow, the steward's face appeared shiny. "The shipment is readied for delivering when Lord Rigby's man of business presents us with payment."

  "Excellent work as usual, Jibotts."

  "Thank you. Is there anything else I can do before I depart?"

  "Just lock the doors behind you. I will see myself out."

  "Very good, my lord. Good night."

  After Jibotts departed, Nicholas gave a rueful shake of the head. He was abraded by unease and too edgy by far. He shuffled the papers on his desk, debating between locking the files in the cabinet and taking them home. Perhaps he could mull over the details of the case with Helena tonight. He'd shared with her his hunch that Bragg had not been the only villain involved. It was no doubt unusual to share so much with one's wife, but his marriage was not proving the usual sort. Unlike most men of his acquaintance, he enjoyed conversing with his spouse. Helena, he was learning, had a sharp mind—and a sharp tongue, too, if one crossed her.

  Of course, he had ways of quelling that organ of hers, of putting it to a different use altogether. Heat unfurled in his belly. His wife had not been boasting when she professed herself an able student. In her nightly lessons, she was proving an exceptional protégée indeed. He crossed the room to the cabinet and locked the papers inside. Work would wait until the morrow.

  Behind him, the door creaked again.

  "Still here, Jibotts?"

  The answering laugh ran down his spine like an icy hand.

  THIRTY-ONE

  At the rumble of the man's voice, Helena's hands stilled on the ivory keys. Relief washed through her. For the past hour, she'd been fretting over Nicholas' unusually late return from the docks. It hadn't helped that last night she had been plagued by uncertain dreams. It was all that discussion with Nicholas about mysterious villains and possible suspects. She'd begged him not to go work today, but he'd chuckled and told her there was nothing to worry about. He and Mr. Kent were on the alert. Yet traces of tension had trailed her every movement, her every thought today.

  'Twas just a dream. You see, Nicholas is home now. All is well.

  "She's my gel, I tell you. I don't need an appointment!"

  The door to the drawing room veered on its hinges, coming to a thunderous stop against the wall. The paintings trembled in their gilt frames. Startled, Helena found herself confronted by her sire's bristling countenance.

  "Papa! Wh-what are you doing here?"

  "Kindly inform your servant that the Earl of Northgate need not be announced to his own daughter!"

  Helena gave a slight and apologetic nod to Crikstaff, who stood guard in the doorway. The butler departed, but not without a suspicious glance backward.

  "You need to keep your servants in better hand," Northgate muttered as Helena came to kiss him. "Nobody knows their place these days. The damned frogs caused this mess. Hell of a nuisance, this revolutionary business. Now the tenants are clamoring for this and that, calling it their right. Next thing you know, they'll be demanding we heat their homes and school their brats."

  Wisely, Helena held her tongue.

  "Come, Papa," she said instead. "Let me pour some tea while you share the purpose of your visit ..." A sudden realization struck her. Sweet heavens, he hadn't come to fetch her, had he? "Papa, you did receive my second letter, telling you I was no longer planning to come to Hampshire—"

  "Course I got it." Snorting, the earl plopped down on the settee, straining the buttons on his crimson and maize checked waistcoat as he did so. "Damn good thing too. Your request came at a deuced inconvenient time, gel. In the middle of a hunting party, wasn't I?"

  "Yes, well, I am glad it all worked out—"

  "Not sure it has, my girl, and that's the truth." Northgate gulped his tea and winced. "Haven't you anything stronger?"

  "Of course, Papa." Helena went to fetch a glass of
whiskey. She sat beside her father, who downed the spirits immediately. He smacked his lips in appreciation.

  "The whoreson keeps a good cellar, I'll give him that," he said.

  "Please do not refer to Nicholas in that manner," Helena said, frowning.

  "Why not? His mother was little more than a pretty piece. You are too good for him by far. I received the short end of the bargain, Helena, and don't think I haven't my regrets."

  Helena felt the fraying edge of temper. "Papa, please, I cannot allow you to insult my husband in his own home. Nicholas is the kindest, most generous of husbands, and he is your son-in-law. Cannot you find it in your heart to like him? If nothing else, then for my sake?"

  "Generous, bah!" Northgate slammed his glass down on the rosewood coffee table. His face turned an apoplectic red, and his whiskers quivered with rage. "That bastard is as miserly as they come. Probably counting his gold as we speak, and me left out in the cold. Well, I won't have it, I tell you. No one cuts off the Earl of Northgate, no one!"

  "Papa, what are you talking about? Are ... are you in some sort of trouble ...?"

  "Dammit, gel, what kind of question is that? Deuced impudent, if you ask me." Scowling, Northgate reached for the biscuit box. The silver lid squeaked on its hinges as the earl rummaged through the contents and fished out the largest biscuit. "Should have never let you marry beneath you—his inferior breeding has tainted you already."

  Helena closed her eyes and counted backward from ten.

  "Papa," she said in a firm voice, "is this visit about money?"

  "By Jove, Helena, where's your delicacy? Your mother would expire on the spot to hear you speak in so common a manner." As he spoke, crumbs scattered on his beard. His fingers drummed on his knee. Her father was not, Helena noticed, wearing his favorite signet ring. Nor did a jeweled stick pin reside in his cravat. Nor did the usual assorted jangle of gold fobs decorate his person.

  Familiar tell-tale signs, all of them. Had she not been so taken aback by his sudden appearance, she would have noticed sooner.

  "I should not bring this topic up myself, you understand, but since you have mentioned it ..."