More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress

by Mary Balogh

  “How utterly ridiculous you make yourself when you decide to play the part of toplofty aristocrat,” she told him, folding her hands in her lap and pressing her lips tightly together. She girded herself for the inevitable battle.

  21

  E WAS SURPRISED BY THE FORCE OF HIS HATRED for her. He had never hated anyone—except perhaps his father. Not even his mother. It was unnecessary to hate when one did not feel strongly about anyone. He wished he could feel nothing but indifference for Lady Sara Illingsworth.

  He could almost succeed when he thought of her by that name. But his eyes saw Jane Ingleby.

  “You will not be forced to behold your ridiculous husband very often, you will be relieved to know,” he told her. “You will live at Acton, and you know how fond I am of my main country seat. You will see me only once a year or so when it becomes necessary to breed you. If you are very efficient you will have two sons within the first two years of our marriage and I may consider them enough to secure the succession. If you are extraordinarily clever, of course, you may already be increasing.” He lifted his quizzing glass and regarded her abdomen through it.

  Her lips had already done their familiar disappearing act. He was glad she had pulled herself together. For a while she had looked pale and shaken and abject. He had found himself almost pitying her. She was glaring at him with her very blue eyes.

  “You are forgetting one thing, your grace,” she said. “Women are not quite slaves in our society, though they come dangerously close. I have to say ‘I do’ or ‘I will’ or whatever it is brides say to consent to a marriage. You may drag me to the altar—I will concede your superior physical strength—but you will be considerably embarrassed when I refuse my consent.”

  He knew he should be delighted by her obvious reluctance. But she had duped him, humiliated him, made a fool of him once. Her will would not prove stronger than his on this particular matter.

  “Besides,” she added, “I am not yet of age. And according to my father’s will I cannot marry below the age of five and twenty without the consent of my guardian. If I do, I lose my inheritance.”

  “Inheritance?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Everything my father owned except Candleford itself was unentailed,” she explained, “and his title, of course. His other estates, his fortune—everything, in fact—will be mine at the age of five and twenty, or my husband’s if I marry with consent before then.”

  Which explained a great deal, of course. Durbury had the title and Candleford and control of everything else at the moment. He would have permanent control if he could persuade Lady Sara to marry into his family—or if he could make her life so uncomfortable that she would rashly elope with someone else before her twenty-fifth birthday.

  “I suppose,” he said, “if you break the rules Durbury himself inherits everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “He may inherit everything, then,” he said curtly. “I am enormously wealthy. I do not need my wife to bring me a fortune.”

  “I suppose,” she said, “if I am convicted of murder I will be disinherited. Perhaps I will even d-die. But I will fight to whatever end is in store for me. And I will marry no one, whatever the outcome. Not Charles. Not you. At least not until I am five and twenty. Then I will marry or not marry as I choose. I will be free. I will be dead or imprisoned or transported, or I will be free. Those are the alternatives. I will be no man’s slave in the guise of wife. Certainly not yours.”

  He gazed at her in silence. She did not look away, of course. She was one of the few people, man or woman, who could hold his scrutiny. She held her chin high. Her eyes were steely, her lips still in their thin, stubborn line.

  “I should have seen it sooner,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “The essentially cold emptiness at the core of you. You are sexually passionate, but then sex is an essentially carnal thing. It does not touch the heart. You have the strange ability of opening yourself to other people’s confidences. You convey an image of sympathy and empathy. You can take in and take in, can you not, like some cold-hearted creature warming itself with its victim’s blood. One does not notice that in effect you give nothing back. Jane Ingleby, bastard of some unknown gentleman, reared in a superior orphanage. That was all you gave me—lies. And your Siren’s body. I am weary of arguing with you. I have other calls to make, but I will return. You will stay here until I do.”

  “I have hurt you,” she said, getting to her feet. “You will be pleased to know that you have had your revenge. If my heart was not cold before, it is now. I have given and given of my very self because your need has been so great. I was not given a chance to reach out for myself, for the comfort of your understanding and sympathy and friendship. There was not enough time—just one week and it ended so abruptly yesterday. Go. I am weary too. I want to be alone. You feel betrayed, your grace? Well, I do too.”

  He did not stop her this time when she turned to leave the room. He watched her go. He stood where he was for a long time.

  His heart ached.

  The heart he had not known he possessed.

  He could not trust her. He would not trust her. Not again.

  Had he betrayed her? Had it been sympathy and friendship and love she had given after all? Had she intended sharing herself with him as he had shared himself with her?

  Jane.

  Lady Sara Illingsworth.

  Ah, Jane.

  He strode from the room and from the house. It was only when he was some distance away that he remembered ordering her to remain until he returned. But she was not one to take orders meekly. He should have made her promise. Devil take it, he should have thought of that.

  But surely she would not leave the house now. Surely she would wait.

  He did not go back.

  IF LADY WEBB WAS surprised when her butler handed her a card on a tray and informed her even before she could look at it that the Duke of Tresham was standing in her hall below requesting the honor of a few minutes of her time, she did not show it by the time Jocelyn was announced. She rose from a small escritoire, where she was apparently engaged in writing letters.

  “Tresham?” she said graciously.

  “Ma’am.” He made her a deep bow. “I thank you for granting me some of your time.”

  Lady Webb was an elegant widow of about forty with whom he was acquainted, though not well. She moved in a more civilized set than any with which he usually consorted. He held her in considerable respect.

  “Do have a seat,” she offered, indicating a chair while she seated herself on a sofa close by, “and tell me what brings you here.”

  “I believe,” he said, taking the offered chair, “you have an acquaintance with Lady Sara Illingsworth, ma’am.”

  She raised her eyebrows and regarded him more keenly. “She is my goddaughter,” she said. “Do you have any news of her?”

  “She was employed at Dudley House as my nurse for three weeks,” he said, “after I had been shot in the leg in a, ah, duel. She came upon me in Hyde Park while it was happening. She was on her way to work at a milliner’s at the time. She was using an alias, of course.”

  Lady Webb was sitting very still. “Is she still at Dudley House?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am.” Jocelyn sat back in his chair. He was experiencing extreme discomfort, a feeling relatively unknown to him. “I did not know her real identity until a Bow Street Runner came to speak with me yesterday. I knew her as Miss Jane Ingleby.”

  “Ah, Jane,” Lady Webb said. “It is the name by which her parents called her. Her middle name.”

  Foolishly it felt good to hear that. She really was Jane, as she had told him earlier.

  “She was a servant, you must understand,” he said. “She had temporary employment with me.”

  Lady Webb shook her head and sighed aloud. “And you do not know where she went,” she said. “Neither do I. Is that why you have come here? Because you are outraged to know that you were duped into giving sanctuary to a fug
itive? If I knew where she was, Tresham, I would not tell you. Or the Earl of Durbury.” She spoke the name with disdain.

  “You do not believe, then,” he asked, “that she is guilty of any of the charges against her?”

  Her nostrils flared, the only sign of emotion. She sat straight but gracefully on her seat, her back not touching it. Her posture was rather reminiscent of Jane’s—a lady’s posture.

  “Sara is no murderer,” she said firmly, “and no thief either. I would stake my fortune and my reputation on it. The Earl of Durbury wanted her to marry his son, whom she held in the utmost contempt, sensible girl. I have my own theory on how Sidney Jardine met his end. If you are lending your support to Durbury by coming here in the hope that you will learn more from me than he did a few days ago, then you are wasting your time and mine. I would ask you to leave.”

  “Do you believe he is dead?” Jocelyn asked with narrowed eyes.

  She stared at him. “Jardine?” she said. “Why would his father say he was dead if he were not?”

  “Has he said it?” Jocelyn asked. “Or has he merely not contradicted the rumor that has been making the circuit of London drawing rooms and clubs?”

  She was looking steadily at him. “Why are you here?” she asked.

  All day he had wondered what exactly he would say. He had come to no satisfactory conclusion. “I know where she is,” he said. “I found her other employment when she left Dudley House.”

  Lady Webb was on her feet instantly. “In town?” she asked. “Take me to her. I will bring her here and give her sanctuary while I have my solicitor look into the ridiculous charges against her. If your suspicions are correct and Sidney Jardine is still alive … Well. Where is she?”

  Jocelyn had risen too. “She is in town, ma’am,” he assured her. “I will bring her to you. I would have brought her now, but I had to be sure that she would find a safe haven here.”

  Her gaze became shrewd suddenly.

  “Tresham,” she asked, as he had feared she would, “what other employment did you find Sara?”

  “You must understand, ma’am,” he said stiffly, “that she gave me a false name. She told me she had been brought up in an orphanage. It was clear that she had had a genteel upbringing, but I thought her destitute and friendless.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, but she did not relax her very erect posture. “Bring her to me,” she said. “You will have a maid or some respectable female companion with her when she arrives.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “I do, of course, consider myself affianced to Lady Sara Illingsworth.”

  “Of course.” There was a certain coldness in the eyes that regarded him so keenly. “It just seems a rather sad irony that she has escaped from one blackguard merely to land in the clutches of another. Bring her to me.”

  Jocelyn made her a bow, resisting the urge to don his usual expression of cynical hauteur. At least the woman had enough integrity not to be rubbing her hands with glee at the thought of netting the Duke of Tresham for her goddaughter.

  “Enlist the help of your solicitor by all means, ma’am,” he said. “In the meantime I will be doing my own part to clear the name of my betrothed and to release her from the bonds of an inappropriate guardianship. Good day.”

  He left her standing straight and proud and hostile in the middle of her drawing room. Someone to whom he could quite safely bring Jane. A friend at last.

  JANE REMAINED IN HER bedchamber for a whole hour after Jocelyn had left, doing nothing but sit on the dressing table stool, her slippered feet side by side on the floor, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes glazed as they gazed unseeing at the carpet.

  Then she got up and removed all her clothes, everything that had been bought for her. She took from her wardrobe the plain muslin dress, the serviceable shift, and the stockings she had worn to London and dressed again. She brushed out her hair and braided it tightly so that it would fit beneath her gray bonnet. She pulled on the bonnet and matching cloak, slipped her feet into her old shoes, drew on her black gloves, and was ready to go. She picked up her bag of meager possessions—and the priceless bracelet—and let herself quietly out of her room.

  Unfortunately Phillip was in the hallway below. He looked at her in surprise—she had never been out before, of course, and she was very plainly dressed.

  “You are going out, ma’am?” he asked redundantly.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “Just for a walk and some fresh air, Phillip.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He hurried to open the door for her and looked uncertainly at her bag. “Where shall I tell his grace you have gone, ma’am, if he should return?”

  “That I have gone for a walk.” She retained her smile as she stepped out onto the doorsill. She immediately felt the panic of one who fears falling off the edge of the world. She stepped resolutely forward. “I am not a prisoner here, you know.”

  “No, of course, ma’am,” Phillip was hasty to agree. “Enjoy your walk, ma’am.”

  She wanted to turn back to say a proper good-bye to him. He was a pleasant young man who had always been eager to please. But she merely walked on and listened to the sound of the door closing behind her.

  Like a prison door.

  Shutting her out.

  It might have been just oversensitive nerves, of course. She realized that as soon as she sensed less than five minutes later that she was being followed. But she would not turn around to look. Neither would she quicken her pace—nor slacken it. She strode along the pavement at a steady pace, her back straight, her chin up.

  “Lady Sara Illingsworth? Good afternoon, my lady.”

  The voice, reasonably pleasant, not raised, came from close behind her. She felt as if a reptile were crawling up her spine. Terror attacked her knees, nausea her stomach. She stopped and turned slowly.

  “A member of the Bow Street Runners, I presume?” she said just as pleasantly. He certainly did not look the part. Neither tall nor large in girth, he appeared like nothing more than a poor man’s imitation of a dandy.

  “Yes, my lady. At your service, my lady,” the Runner said, looking steadily at her, not making any obeisance.

  Jocelyn had been wrong, then. He had not succeeded in lifting the watch on her house. He had described the Runner as shrewd, but he had not guessed that the man was too shrewd to allow himself to be ordered away from his prey when he knew she was close.

  “I will make your task easy,” she said, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. Indeed, it was amazing how terror receded once one had faced it head-on. “I am on the way to the Pulteney Hotel to call upon the Earl of Durbury. You may escort me there and claim all the glory of having apprehended me, if you wish. But you will not come closer or touch me. If you do, I shall squawk very loudly—there are any number of carriages and pedestrians in sight. I shall make up every story I can think of to convince my audience that you are stalking and harassing me. Do we have an agreement?”

  “It is like this, my lady.” The Runner’s voice sounded pleasantly regretful. “Mick Boden does not let criminals escape him once he has them in his sights. I don’t foolishly let them off the leash just because they are ladies and know how to talk sweet. And I don’t make bargains with them. You come quiet after I have tied your hands behind you under your cloak, and you will not embarrass yourself. I do know that ladies don’t like to be embarrassed in public.”

  The man might be shrewd, but he certainly was not wise. He took a purposeful step toward Jane, one hand disappearing inside a deep pocket. She opened her mouth and screamed—and screamed. She startled even herself. She had never been a screamer, even as a child. The Runner looked both startled and aghast. His hand jerked out of his pocket, clutching a length of rope.

  “Now, there is no need to take on so,” he said sharply. “I’m not going to—”

  But Jane never did discover what it was he was not going to do. Two gentlemen rode up at a smart trot and proceeded to dismount from their horses. A hackney coach
stopped abruptly on the other side of the street, and its burly driver jumped down from the box while shouting directions to a young sweeper to hold the horses’ heads. An elderly couple of respectable middle-class demeanor, who had passed Jane a few moments before, turned and hurried back. And a giant of an individual, who looked as if he might well be a pugilist, had materialized seemingly from nowhere and hugged Mick Boden from behind, pinioning his arms to his sides. It was this action that cut the Runner’s sentence in half.

  “He accosted me,” Jane informed her gathering rescuers. “He was going to tie me up with that”—she pointed one genuinely shaking finger at the rope—“and abduct me.”

  Everyone spoke up at once. The pugilist offered to squeeze harder until the villain’s stomach came spurting out his mouth. The coachman suggested taking him in the hackney to the nearest magistrate, where he would surely be sentenced to hang. One of the gentlemen riders gave it as his opinion that it would be a shame for such a slimy toad to swing before his facial features had been rearranged. The elderly gentleman did not know why such a villainous-looking thug should be allowed to roam the streets of a civilized city, terrorizing its womenfolk. His wife set a motherly arm about Jane’s shoulders and clucked and tutted with mingled concern and outrage.

  Mick Boden had recovered his composure even though he could not free himself. “I am a Bow Street Runner,” he announced in a voice of authority. “I am engaged in apprehending a notorious thief and murderess and would advise you all not to interfere in the workings of justice.”

  Jane lifted her chin. “I am Lady Sara Illingsworth,” she said indignantly, hoping that none of the gathered spectators had heard of her. “I am on my way to visit my cousin and guardian, the Earl of Durbury, at the Pulteney Hotel. He will be very vexed with me when I confess that I came out without my maid. The poor girl is nursing a chill. I should have brought a footman instead, of course, but I did not understand that desperate men will accost ladies even in broad daylight.” She drew a handkerchief from the pocket of her cloak and held it to her mouth.