by Gaelen Foley
“Forgive me, Lady Pierson. I meant no disrespect. I beg your pardon. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Recovering quickly, she looked around with a taut smile. “It does not signify. You did not know.”
The trouble was, he did.
Delilah cleared her throat. “So, Cole, darling, is your prize colt going to be ready for the spring racing season?” she asked pertly, smoothing out the awkwardness that had come over the table. “What’s his name again?”
“Yes—Avalanche. All of you,” her consort assisted amiably, “be sure and place your bets on my horse this year at Ascot…”
As the conversation moved on, gratefully, to the safer topic of horseflesh, Jordan chastised himself in silence for his blunder. What the hell is wrong with me?
Did he not have years of training in the art of drawing people out through conversation in order to learn their secrets?
Did he not at least have eyes? Unfortunately, he saw now, he had let his long-nursed anger blind him to the obvious. Given that it was not uncommon for healthy wives to produce a child a year or at least every other year, Mara should’ve had four or five little ones already. Lord and Lady Pierson must have had some sort of problems with their fertility—and Jordan had just called this fact to the attention of the entire dinner party.
He lowered his head in self-directed fury, then glanced again across the table at her in apologetic compassion, realizing now why she doted so much on the one child she had.
Mara’s only answer was a cold, accusing stare.
He dropped his gaze, fuming at himself. He could not believe that he, of all people, could have blurted out such a barbarous remark without thinking first. It was utterly unlike him. Putting his foot in his mouth was not something agents with years of diplomatic experience did.
So, why had he said it? Had he become such a cold, unfeeling bastard, so detached from the rest of humanity, that he could no longer grasp what a painful subject this would be for any woman?
Or was that precisely why he had said it—because a part of him wanted to hurt her in some small way after she had let him down so bitterly?
How many children might they have had together by now, after all, if she had been married to him all this time, the way it should have been? Ghostly sons and daughters whose chance to exist had already come and gone…
But that wasn’t Mara’s fault at the end of the day. It was his. It was the Order’s. And it could not be undone.
Jordan promptly lost his appetite.
The evening lumbered on. Another course was served, but he had nothing to say for the rest of the meal.
The wine continued flowing, and soon his rude question seemed forgotten by the others—though not by Mara.
Then a snippet of conversation from Delilah’s end of the table drew his attention. “Lady Pierson told me a happy announcement is soon to come from the Regent,” their hostess was informing the guests closest to her with an arch smile.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know! The stubborn creature wouldn’t tell me!”
“Then we must prevail on her on to reveal it! Lady Pierson, what news from your friend at Carlton House?”
“Yes, tell us what’s afoot!”
Mara looked over innocently. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Delilah said you told her that some big announcement from the Prince Regent was imminent!”
“Well, Delilah lies, as everybody knows,” she shot back in studied amusement.
They laughed, while Delilah raised an eyebrow, but Jordan looked at Mara in surprise.
“You know you said it,” their hostess chided her friend.
Mara shrugged. “I cannot recall any such conversation, darling.”
“Come, please!” others whined.
“No, no, I cannot!” Mara laughed. “I’m sure you’ll hear it as soon as His Royal Highness returns from Brighton.”
“When will that be? The Times said he’s there recovering from another attack of the gout,” someone said.
“Maybe you should go and help take care of His Royal Highness, Lady Pierson.”
“Now, now! He has his daughter to look after him,” she said.
“Princess Charlotte also went to Brighton?”
“Yes, and the Times said she’s under the weather, too, poor gel!” a bejeweled lady chimed in. “A nasty cold.”
That, Jordan knew, was the official story. But thanks to the Order’s daily intelligence briefings, he was well aware that there was another reason the Regent and his unpredictable daughter had both gone to stay at the Brighton Pavilion.
It was not to recuperate from their pet maladies. That was merely what they told the papers. In fact, the royals were there on the most serious business, negotiating the engagement of Princess Charlotte to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg.
With one previous near betrothal already soured between Princess Charlotte and the Prince of Orange, the Regent wasn’t taking any chances on another public debacle. But this time, according to all reports, the match was sure to take.
Those who had observed the smitten young couple together reported that the serious, sensible German prince was exactly what the exuberant, irrepressible princess needed in a mate. Prinny had no son; therefore, his only daughter would inherit the Crown one day, and Leopold’s tender, steadying influence should help to rein in the girl designated as England’s future queen from her flightier moments.
It was not that different from how things could have been between him and Mara, come to think of it. Ah, well.
The more important question that came to Jordan’s mind was: How could Mara know what the royals were really doing in Brighton?
The betrothal had not yet been announced to the world. Only the Cabinet ministers and a handful a castle insiders were aware of this new development in the royal household.
Jordan doubted Mara was personally close to Princess Charlotte, given their age difference. The girl had just turned twenty, while her portly father, the Prince Regent, was in his fifties.
Well, here was a mystery. As soon as the meal ended, Jordan made it his mission to learn more. When the last cardoon was eaten and everyone had had their fill of fruit tart-lets and cheesecakes, the gentlemen stood as the ladies rose and gracefully paraded off to the drawing room.
The men remained in the dining room, taking up considerably cruder language as they lounged a while at table over cigars and port. A few got up to relieve themselves at the piss-pots that had been discreetly left beneath the gilded mahogany sideboard for that purpose.
The liquor had been flowing all night, and because of that, Jordan quickly found he did not even have to resort to his spy skills to gather the intelligence he sought.
A three-bottle man who had turned his back to them to stand before the chamber pot first broached the subject. “Do you suppose Lady Pierson would mind if I whisked her off to some dark corner here and had my way with her?” he asked the others in a wistful tone—rhetorically, Jordan surely hoped.
“She might not, but I daresay His Royal Highness would,” another answered with a laugh as he turned around, buttoning his trousers.
“Our Prinny always did have an eye for beauty,” a third said with a smirk.
“Damn, but she is tempting, ain’t she? I, for one, shall never mourn her husband.”
Obviously, these men knew nothing of their past together. “So, what’s the gossip, then?” Jordan spoke up, idly flicking a bit of ash off his cigar. “I’ve been away, chaps. You must fill me in. Is the lady spoken for, or is she fair game?”
“Word has it she’s the Regent’s pocket Venus, Falconridge,” a tipsy man informed him with a rueful wink.
For all his training, Jordan could barely hide his shock. “You are jesting.”
“No, no, it’s true! Cole, didn’t Mrs. Staunton say Lady Pierson bought a painting for her royal ‘friend’ yesterday at Christie’s? Spent more than a thousand pounds on ’im.”
/> “A thousand pounds!” someone cried.
All of the men were amazed at this news. But only Jordan was horrified.
“I thought His Highness was attached to Lady Melbourne?” one dandy chimed in, polishing his monocle.
“Well, there’s enough of him to go around, if you haven’t noticed.”
The others laughed at the jest alluding to the Regent’s ever-growing girth, but for his part, Jordan was hard-pressed to mask his astounded fury. Mara was the Regent’s mistress? Could this abomination actually be true?
She was sleeping with the man that he was honor-bound to serve? Jordan felt as though someone had clubbed him over the head with the butt of a musket.
The news sent him reeling. Yet he had indeed seen her buy that painting yesterday. That much was fact. And at dinner, she had known the real reason that the royals were in Brighton. How else could she know unless she was close to the Regent?
Very close, if this gossip were true.
As the other men began drifting out to join the ladies upstairs in the drawing room, Jordan happened to meet his own stunned glance in the pier glass.
He looked a trifle pale. He lowered his head, dazedly crushing out his cigar, but he let the others go on ahead while he remained behind to try to gather his thoughts.
He could hardly believe it…but then again, perhaps he could. Especially when he recalled the shameless flirt she once had been. Good God. She must deny this. He needed to see her again immediately; he would study her right now in the drawing room as closely as if she were one of his enemy targets. He would discern the truth.
With that, he strode out of the dining room to the foyer, but then he saw the one-legged major standing at the bottom of the stairs. Leaning on his crutch, the veteran was gazing grimly up the long, marble staircase.
Jordan curbed his impatience and went over to the man. He knew better, of course, than to offer outright help to any proud British officer. But for honor’s sake, the least he could do was to keep the man company on his way up the mountain.
The major sent him a grim smile askance. “You don’t have to wait for me, Falconridge.”
Jordan nodded discreet encouragement and gestured toward the stairs. “Shall we?”
“Right.” The major let out a sigh, then braced himself, struck out with his crutch, and started the climb with a wince.
Jordan kept him talking about politics to take the major’s mind off the pain and fury that he was obviously feeling behind that stiff upper lip.
But by the time he and the stoic war hero reached the drawing room, Jordan saw that, for his part, he’d paid a bit of a price for arriving late.
Mara was already surrounded by mostly tipsy, overeager men, each waiting for his turn to shower her with compliments.
Jordan took one look at her, and that was all he really needed to see. It was not proof that her affair with the Regent was true, but the rumor certainly fit the coquettish Mara he had once known. And likewise, seeing her surrounded by beaux just as she had been at seventeen persuaded him this night had been a waste of time.
She was never going to change. She’d never be the woman he wished for, needed her to be. Perhaps she couldn’t help what she had become, after the way she had been raised. Of course, he had always known she was a survivor, above all.
Like me.
Their kind held on thanks to a certain steely core, a ruthless streak that tended, by necessity, toward selfishness. Twelve years ago, he had done the selfish thing, unable to handle the pain of being so torn—falling in love just when he had to leave for the first time to serve his country. It had been easier to walk away from her with vague notions of coming back. He had lost her but he had preserved his sanity and, more importantly, had been there for his brother warriors.
As for Mara, he supposed she had waited for him as long as she could, until she, too, could not stand the pain of her situation anymore, accepting Lord Pierson in order to escape it. Now that she had her widow’s freedom, however, he considered it highly unlikely she would ever put herself in that position again. From here on in, with the possible exception of her son, it was all self-interest with Mara, her own advantage, and what could be more advantageous for any Society lady, Jordan thought angrily, than a seat on the knee of the future king?
Truly, a match made in heaven, he thought acidly, for the Regent was a famed collector of beautiful things.
Jordan could barely manage to hide his disgust.
Mara spared him a glance after a time, her dark eyes guarded and rather hostile.
But she did not extricate herself from her admirers fast enough for him.
Ah, the flirt and her stupid games. Punishing him, he supposed.
He glanced at the mantel clock, then mentally gave her two more minutes to get away from her devotees and cross the room to him. Whatever happened, he was sure as Hell not going over to her. A man had his pride.
While he waited, his mind drifted back to another time, years ago, when he had also had to grit his teeth and watch her holding court like this.
Back at that infamous country-house party where he’d lost his heart, he had tried to warn her to be careful not to get in over her head…
“My, my, Miss Bryce,” the younger Jordan murmured in amusement when the belle of the evening finally joined him at the edge of the ballroom, having separated herself at last from her band of suitors. “It would seem you’ve conquered the room.”
“Pshaw,” she replied with droll modesty, the merry twinkle in her dark eyes brightened by champagne. She took another sip and leaned against the wall beside him.
He watched his fair young friend in amusement. “I daresay I’m beginning to feel a little left out.”
“Whatever do you mean, sir?” she had asked innocently, those sultry lips parted slightly, wet with champagne.
Jordan could not stop staring. “Must I watch you enchant every other man in the room before you finally get around to flirting with me?”
“Flirt? Who, me?”
“Ah, don’t deny it,” he chided with a soft laugh. “I know very well what you’re up to.”
“I doubt it,” she replied with an airy toss of her sable curls.
“You mean to land yourself a husband before the month is out.” He shrugged. “Not that I can blame you.”
She glanced at him in alarm.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about your little scheme,” he murmured with a smile.
A look of relief eased the worry that still lurked just beneath her playful surface. “Very well, so you have unmasked me, my lord,” she conceded in a confidential tone. “But honestly, I can’t take it anymore. I have to find a new—situation.”
He noted she couldn’t even call it a home. “Believe me, I sympathize. Just be careful,” he advised gently. “Marriage is a permanent arrangement. Make an overhasty choice, and you may find you’ve only escaped the frying pan for the fire.”
She shook her head. “It can’t get any worse.”
“Of course it can. Come, you don’t need these fools,” he tried to encourage her. “All you have to learn is to stand up for yourself against—Lady Beelzebub.” He nodded discreetly toward her mother.
Mara smiled ruefully, but shook her head. “It’s a waste of breath. I learned a long time ago that fighting back only stokes her wrath. She does not back down, and she is never wrong. Why even try? It’s easier just to placate.”
He shook his head. “You’ve let her defeat you in your mind. You mustn’t give up, Mara. You’re stronger than you know. You certainly needn’t rely on any of these fools to save you,” he added with a glance toward her devotees. “You’re smarter than them. They don’t even realize what sort of game you’re playing.”
She bristled slightly. “It’s not a game, Lord Falconridge. It’s a matter of survival. But I don’t suppose you would know too much about that.” She shrugged, avoiding his raised eyebrow.
He hid his amusement, considering he had been trained to
survive in a wide variety of dangerous conditions.
“All the same,” she continued with a nonchalant air, “I am sorry that you disapprove of me.”
“It’s not a matter of disapproving, Miss Bryce. I just don’t want to see you get hurt. And I fear you will if you put your faith in someone weaker than yourself to save you. I mean, honestly—look at them.”
Her witless beaux were picking pieces of fruit out of the punch bowl and throwing them at each other amid raucous laughter.
She heaved another rueful sigh. “Well, you may have a point. But if you’re so strong and wise, why don’t you save me, then? You’ve already proved once you’re very good at it.” The challenge she issued with a bold look askance at him sent a thrill as hot as a volcano racing through his body.
Willing himself not to get hard in the middle of the ballroom, he somehow played it cool. “But I only just met you, Miss Bryce,” he answered casually. “And ever since we arrived, all you’ve done is flirt with every other fellow here.”
“Maybe I’m only trying to get your attention.”
Jordan’s thoughts were anything but gentlemanly as he stared at her teasing smile. “Don’t play with me, my girl.”
“You said you wanted me to flirt with you.”
“I think—” He had lifted the glass gently out of her hand. “Someone had better leave off the champagne punch.”
“What sensible advice you give! Were you born grown-up?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I wasn’t. And one must do what necessity requires.” She turned away, lifted her chin, and surveyed the ballroom like some fair lady general assessing the battlefield. “In the meanwhile, if you have a better idea, you are welcome to throw your hat into the ring.”
“Perhaps I shall.”
At that, she looked at him over her shoulder in feminine speculation; Jordan had to shake himself out of her spell. Good God, what was he thinking? He’d come here to pick strawberries, not a blasted wife—and this one was sure to be a hell of a handful. With his orders coming any day now, he should not even be entertaining such notions.
Somehow he managed to retrieve his idle tone. “Thanks for the invitation,” he said lightly. “For now, it’s rather amusing, watching you work. You’re very good, you know. Most of these fools don’t even know what’s hit them. Do try to behave,” he added, as she pushed away from the wall and sauntered back toward her suitors.