by Jude Knight
“10 of the clock,” the woman said, then, raising her voice, “Jessamine? It is 10 o’clock. We must hurry.”
Jessamine. That was it. So this must be the other one. Damned if he could remember her name, though he had rather pleasant memories bombarding him in vignettes of the evening before.
It would be polite to help, with the lady clearly anxious to be on her way. He pulled himself up, wincing at the stab of pain. While he sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning, and dinner from the night before to return to his stomach, another woman appeared in the doorway to Aldridge’s bedchamber.
This one was fetchingly wrapped in a sheet, trailing behind her. “Lillian? Did you say 10 o’clock? Oh, merciful Heavens, what if I am not home before Bally?”
That name rang a bell. Bally. The Earl of Ballingcroft. This fair lady must be his countess, then. Hugh managed to stand and bow, politely.
“Bally is unlikely to leave Baroness Farliegh’s bed before noon, my dear,” her friend advised. “Which was, if you remember, rather the point of you being here.”
The Countess of Ballingcroft tossed her dishevelled head. “Sauce for the gander, Lillian.” But her moment of defiance dissolved back into worry. “But I can’t be seen leaving Aldridge’s house.”
“You will not, my dear. Trust me for that.” The drawl belonged to Aldridge, leaning against the doorway to his study. Fully and immaculately attired, apart from his jacket, he looked as if he’d been up for hours. Based on Hugh’s prior nights of raking and mayhem with the Merry Marquis, he probably had.
“You look disgusting, Aldridge,” he said.
“Feeling a bit under the weather, Overton? Here.” Aldridge crossed to the array of decanters and poured a good inch of golden nectar, which he brought to Hugh.
“Now, ladies. My coach has been waiting in the mews this past hour, and we can have you out of here the back way and in your own back doors in no time. Here, Mrs Barlow, is this stocking yours? How on Earth did it get up there?”
“But people will know,” Lady Ballingcroft wailed.
“The coach is unmarked, Jessamine, and the same as a thousand others,” Mrs Barlow reassured her friend. “No one will know where you have been.”
“And when word reaches your straying husband that you arrived home long after dawn, all you do is smile and say you were out with your friend,” Aldridge instructed.
Lady Ballingcroft, who had dropped the sheet and was shimmying into the shift Aldridge handed her, stopped in mid-shimmy at the thought, then resumed and emerged, clothed and beaming.
“And as long as I say nothing more, he will be left to imagine it all!”
Mrs Barlow nodded. “And if he insists you tell him where you went, you will say that you and I shared a delightful evening together.” She waggled her eyebrows at Aldridge. “Which is no lie. Aldridge, darling, will you do me up?”
Aldridge performed the office, and Hugh assisted Lady Ballingcroft.
“We can do our hair back at my apartment, darling,” Mrs Barlow said to her friend, “and then I will send you home in my carriage. And let Bally make what he will of that.”
Lady Ballingcroft was now quite happy and, with a kiss for Hugh and another for Aldridge, left the room on Mrs Barlow’s arm. “And Bally will never know he has been Aldridged?”
“He will suspect, my dear, when you start practicing the new tricks you have learned. Did I not tell you?”
“I had no idea.” Lady Ballingcroft’s awe made Hugh smile long after they descended the stairs and moved out of earshot.
Aldridge came back shaking his head. “What a fool Ballingcroft is, Overton. And what a surprise he will have when next he approaches his wife, and she expects to participate in the act.”
“The man should be thanking us for his Aldridging,” Hugh observed. “I take it that means being cuckolded by Aldridge.”
“‘Aldridging,’ indeed. When did I become a verb, Overton? How Rose will laugh when I tell her. Although I imagine she has already heard.”
“You tell your mistress about your amorous adventures?” Hugh asked. He hadn’t kept a mistress in years, in part, because the opera dancer he’d spent a small fortune on before he joined the army would have hurled every vase and ornament in the place at his head, if he’d done such a thing. Yes, and then demanded he replace them.
Aldridge just laughed. “Speaking of which, we must be up and about, my lad. I’ve arranged to encounter today’s two ladies in Green Park.”
Hugh groaned. “Mercy, Aldridge. Can’t you just leave me to sleep? I’ll play my part tonight, but...”
Aldridge shook his head. “Can’t be done, Overton. I have another engagement tonight.”
“Well, take me on this other engagement then. Surely we can find a couple of light-heeled ladies...”
“This is not that kind of an engagement, Overton. I’m taking a little girl and her friends to Astley’s Amphitheatre. It’s her 10th birthday, and I promised. Ah. Martin, thank you.” Aldridge took the mug his valet handed him. “Here, Overton, it set you right yesterday.”
“It’s noxious,” Hugh complained, but downed the evil liquid, because Aldridge was correct. It had cured his hangover yesterday.
“It was thinking of Astley’s that gave me the idea, actually. Have you ever done it on horseback, Overton?”
Hugh’s head was suddenly full of erotic images. “Never. Is it even possible?”
“Oh, yes. With co-operation. We did agree to two different ladies and two different positions a day, and no repeats.”
“Yes. For a week. I think Hackenburg intended us to find four different ladies between the two of us.”
Aldridge’s lazy smile showed his supreme indifference to Hackenburg’s intentions. “He didn’t specify.”
“Twenty-eight conquests would better prove the morals of the ladies of the ton are no better than the morals of the gentleman,” Overton suggested.
“Fourteen in pairs, each willing to take on two comers, proves it better. And only four more to go. Thank you, Martin. Leave it to me, now. I’ll get the baron cleaned up.” The servant had set up a bath, filled it, and laid out linen towels and a new bar of soap.
“I’ll do my best not to let you down, Aldridge. Only one more day to go?”
Later that afternoon, Aldridge waited on the edge of one of the riding paths in Green Park for Overton to join him. His most recent companion, cross because Aldridge refused to spend the evening with her, had called for her carriage and left, and their other temporary innamorata would also make her own way home, once she and Overton finished their amorous encounter and emerged from cover.
Neither of them would wish to be seen with the Merry Marquis, for fear of being outed as having—Aldridge couldn’t repress the grin—‘Aldridged’ their husbands.
Not that he did as much Aldridging as he used to. He wished he hadn’t started the silly wager. However, people had money riding on him now, and he’d given his word to Overton. He’d see the week out.
Aldridge had engineered the situation to give Overton something to do. Hugh Baron Overton was celibate and sober for eleven months of the year, off in Lancashire being a good baron. But for three years running, when the anniversary of his wife’s death approached, he’d come to London. Aldridge considered it a solemn duty to keep the man drunk and well-satisfied.
Unfortunately, the anniversary was today, and so was Sarah’s birthday. When he’d promised, two months ago, to take her to Astley’s, if she were good, he’d forgotten about his commitment to Hugh Overton.
Well, with luck, the man would be worn out and would sleep.
But when Overton followed Lady Stenworth from the bushes, he looked anything but tired.
The two men made courteous and respectful farewells to the lady, Overton’s speech and gait barely affected by the brandy he had been putting away steadily since he woke.
Both had been careful not to crush the lady’s riding habit or disturb her coiffure, and
only a certain glow betrayed how she had spent the afternoon. That, and the womanly musk trailing in the air after she trotted on her way.
“The split skirt is a marvellous invention,” Overton observed. He took a swallow from a hip flask, then offered it to Aldridge, who refused. Becky wouldn’t turn a hair if he tupped every woman in London in front of her town-house, provided Sarah didn’t see. But she’d have his hide if he turned up drunk to collect her daughter.
Ah, Becky. He’d be pleased when these few weeks of excess were over and he could get back to the routine he had been perfecting for the past three years—several nights a week in Becky’s bed, an occasional affair with a lady of the ton who caught his interest, or an assignation with a former lover for old time’s sake.
Once, he had been less discriminating. Maybe he was getting old, but copulation, however he varied which bits connected where and how, was hollow without spending some time with—actually liking—the women he bedded.
“Go on, Aldridge. It’s your brandy.” Overton was holding out the flask again.
“Not for me, Overton. Birthday party. Remember?”
Overton dropped his head and sighed, then looked up. “Can I come, Aldridge? I haven’t been to Astley’s in years.” He took another drink.
“You wouldn’t enjoy it, Overton. Pack of little girls.”
Overton insisted. “I like little girls. Have two of my own, you know.” He drooped again. The man wasn’t going to cry, was he? “Well, of my wife’s, anyway.” He shook his head slowly and sadly. “Poor Polyphemia. I should never have married her, you know.”
Aldridge thought Overton had finished, but he had merely paused for yet another swallow of brandy—his fourth in as many minutes. He continued, enunciating each word. “Her last one died. Did you know? Of course you did. Died three years ago. My wife and her baby.”
Odd, Overton always said ‘her’ baby.
Aldridge filed the information. He was going to give in and let Overton join the party. He knew it. Becky would kill him.
“I’ll think about it,” he growled. “But first we have to get you sober. And cleaned up. Can’t go visiting a real lady smelling like that.”
Chapter Eight
Becky waited by the window for Aldridge to arrive. He would come to her first, and then they would collect Sarah from the separate apartment he had established a year ago for her and her governess, and finally they would go to the homes of each of the other children whose parents accepted Sarah as a fit friend for their daughters.
She had no idea how Aldridge had worked that particular miracle, but she was grateful.
Meeting Aldridge at Sarah’s apartment would make more sense, but Aldridge preferred to greet her in a manner that was inappropriate under the nose of her daughter and her daughter’s servants. He was always careful to protect Sarah from her mother’s role in his life.
So, she had walked from her daughter’s rooms to her own town-house already changed for the evening. The clothes she kept here—her Rose wardrobe—were too frivolous, too obvious, for a night out with children, the cut and draping designed to accentuate her physical assets.
Tonight, she wore a neat walking dress in Aldridge’s favourite powder blue, long-sleeved and high-necked, trimmed with piping and embroidery in navy blue to match the redingote that waited in the hall.
His note said he would be here at five o’clock. Becky checked the rococo mantelpiece clock for the hundredth time since she’d arrived, then laughed at her own eagerness.
Waiting was the lot of a mistress, and she was luckier than most. She could spend most of her time as ‘the widow Winstanley,’ living quietly with her daughter, two streets from the infamous Rose of Frampton. Aldridge’s impeccable good manners meant that, except for a couple of occasions when he was deeply troubled, he always sent a message before he arrived on her doorstep.
Now, no more than three or four times a week, and then, only when he was in London. In the first heady days of their contract, he’d barely let her leave his side, spending every night with her when he was in Town, and taking her with him to the country estates. She’d fancied herself in love: an exhilarating mixture of sexual attraction, gratitude, response to his charm, and the pleasant experience of being heard and treated with courtesy.
But the shine wore off. His charm and humour hid ruthless self-interest. He had a deep, but patchy, sense of honour. He would cheerfully cuckold a man he knew, but never broke a promise. He wouldn’t force a woman against her will, but would throw all his considerable resources into suborning her wishes.
When he first took another lover, then told her about it in detail, she did her best to be philosophical. What they had was a contract, not a love affair.
Her heart proved to be dented, not broken. When the scars healed, she was no longer in love with him. Fond, but not in love.
She enjoyed his company, and missed him when he was off on duchy business, or out making mayhem in the ton. She’d learned more about sex in three years with Aldridge, than in three years in a brothel and six with other men. But he was also good company out of bed, an entertaining conversationalist, happiest when his mistress had opinions and made him work hard to defend his.
The deep melancholy he kept so well disguised called to the mother in her, and she would trust him with most things in her life. Though not with a sister, if she had one, and not with her daughter, if Sarah were a few years older.
She wasn’t at all sure she could trust him with the news she was going to have to tell him soon.
That was him now; an unmarked carriage with nothing to distinguish it from a thousand others turning unobtrusively into the street. Aldridge was as careful with her daughter’s reputation as Becky was herself, and would not let the scandal sheets learn the connection between Rose’s house and the one where Mrs and Miss Winstanley lived.
Though, they must know, surely? Scandalmongers of all classes watched him closely. But he wielded the considerable power of the Haverford duchy, and no one ever publicly hinted that Aldridge’s mistress had a double life.
He was early. She crossed to the sideboard where she kept his favourite brandy, and had poured him a glass by the time his steps sounded in the hall. Two sets of steps? Who did Aldridge have with him?
The other man was as tall as Aldridge, but dark to his fair. He must once have been stunningly handsome, one side of his face still carved by a master. Subtle curves and strong planes combined in a harmonious whole, speaking of strength and, in the lines at the corners of his eyes, suffering.
On the other side, dozens of scars pitted and ridged the skin, as if it had been torn and chewed by an animal—an animal with jaws of flame, by the tell-tale burn puckers. Thankfully, whatever it was had missed his eye, now glaring at her.
“Well?” he demanded. Shaken by his voice, rich and mellow despite the curt syllable, she realised she had been staring. How rude. But for some reason, she didn’t apologise as she should, but instead blurted, “I am glad whatever injured you spared your eye.”
He looked startled, and suddenly friendlier. “Thank you. I am glad too.”
That voice! He could read a linen inventory, and she would listen for hours.
“An unusual approach to an introduction,” Aldridge observed. Becky collected herself and smiled at her protector. “No one is more important than the man who keeps you,” a mentor had once told her. “When he is present, see no one else, except as it reflects well on him.”
Becky’s attention had been entirely misdirected. She had presented her cheek to Aldridge for his kiss, given him the expected squeal in return for his squeeze, and returned the kiss, all without being aware of anything but Aldridge’s guest.
“A more traditional introduction would be welcome,” she said.
“My dear, you have heard me speak of my friend, Hugh, Baron Overton.”
Yes. From the description in the gossip magazine on the desk in her sitting room, she had guessed it must be he. Lord O., who, despite hi
s gruesome scars, seems set to bag the full haul of heads, or should we say tails, he and the M.M. need to win their bet. Another heartless aristocrat tomcatting his way through life without thought of the suffering he left behind.
But why was he here, in her house, bristling at being presented to Aldridge’s mistress as if she were a lady? She turned to Aldridge, her raised brow signalling the question.
“Overton is coming to Astley’s with us,” Aldridge said. She knew that mulish expression in his eye. He felt he was in the wrong, and expected her to make a fuss. He wouldn’t back down, and he’d feel better if they could fight over it.
Instead, she turned to Overton. “Lord Overton, I must assume Lord Aldridge would not have brought you here if you were not sober, trustworthy, and aware that my daughter’s future depends on no one making the connection between her mother and Lord Aldridge’s mistress. Since my lord clearly trusts you, I will, too.”
And, her tone said, I will find a way to destroy you if Aldridge is wrong.
Aldridge’s kept woman had the carriage of a queen, and when she lectured him, eyes flashing, all Overton could do was mutter, “Yes, ma’am.” Satisfied with his answer, she poured him a brandy, having already handed one to Aldridge.
He’d heard Aldridge’s mistress was beautiful, though few had met her. But beautiful didn’t come close. What on earth was the man doing with other women when he had this one in his keeping?
What was her name, anyway? He hadn’t really been listening, had half-thought Aldridge was playing one of his japes. A mistress who couldn’t be called Rose, which all the men in town knew to be her name, but had to be called some other name, and treated like a lady in front of her daughter? Surely, it must be a joke?
Apparently, it was true.
While Overton was wool-gathering, Aldridge teased Rose about the present he had in the carriage for the little girl.
He’d dragged Hugh to the shop to pick it up: a doll as beautiful as a princess, and a wardrobe to match. Inspired, Hugh had ordered two. Dark hair for Sophrania, fair hair for Emmaline. They would be ready in a few days, the woman assured him. Good enough. His annual month of freedom would be over in a week. A few days would leave him just enough time to ride home.