The Mistress' House

by Leigh Michaels

  She was stunned at the certainty in his tone. She had known Jason Rivers for years, but only today had she begun to question his honesty. Richard had been in the same room with the man for mere minutes, but he had seen through him.

  “I’m not absolutely certain of that myself,” she said, “so how do you know that he’s cheating me?”

  “I had my suspicions the moment I saw him. He was dressed very expensively for a man in his position.”

  “Perhaps he simply wanted to impress me,” she argued.

  “After I left here today, I looked into his affairs, and I talked to some of the men he had come to London to do business with. And I found a man who sells cartloads of goods for him—goods that are made in your factory but not entered on the books.”

  “Why would such a man tell you what he had done?”

  “Because Rivers cheated him, too, and he wants his revenge.” He pulled off his cravat. “I must apologize, however. Because I spent the afternoon looking into Rivers’ affairs, I did not have time to retrieve the Colford engagement ring or to procure a special license. Tomorrow will have to do for those things, I’m afraid.”

  “The engagement ring,” she said slowly. “Will you have to get it from Blanche? Because…”

  “You’d just as soon not share that with her? No, my dear. She refused to wear the family sapphires—she wanted diamonds instead.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “What is it Lady Hawthorne calls you? Fliss? I like that.” He came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. “I think we must also send Rivers packing tomorrow and put someone in charge who will take proper care of your very considerable property. I’d hire Perkins if I thought I could talk him into leaving Thorne and giving up this fascination with canals—but I don’t suppose he’d be willing to move to York.”

  “So now that you know there’s money after all, I’m a suitable bride?” Felicity tried to keep her tone teasing, but despite her best efforts, her voice trembled a little.

  “Oh, there’s plenty of money. You are—or at least you will be—quite a wealthy woman.” He kissed the nape of her neck and added, sounding almost absent-minded, “One of the things I was asking Thorne about today was how best to arrange it so that your money remains unquestionably yours.”

  Felicity’s body went rigid in shock. He would watch over her possessions for her—yet he did not intend to use her wealth to increase his own? As her husband, he would have every right to whatever she owned—to use it however he deemed fit. “You would do that?” she whispered. “I would never have dreamed…”

  “That a man could wish to marry you for anything but your money? Felicity, my dear…” He turned her round to face him and began unfastening her chemise, his fingers impatient against the soft white fabric. “No, it’s entirely yours… Unless you decide you’d rather put it in trust for our children. The younger children, that is,” he added dryly as the chemise dropped to the floor. “The heir will have Collinswood and all that goes with the title—which is enough to spoil any young man, if we don’t raise him carefully.” He tucked her into the velvet-draped bed with exaggerated care.

  “Younger children?” she asked demurely.

  “Several of them, I shouldn’t doubt.” He joined her in the bed and kissed her long and deeply. “But for now, let’s concentrate on the first one… You know, it really is a good thing I don’t have scruples about taking a married lady as my mistress,” he added thoughtfully. “Because you’ll always be my mistress, Felicity. You’ll always be my Lady Desire.”

  Five

  THE EARL MEETS HIS WARD

  As the butler opened the door of the Hawthorne town house to admit the two gentlemen, Thorne heard a shriek echoing through the entrance hall from the small reception room nearest the front door. An angry shriek. A feminine shriek.

  “I thought Lady Hawthorne went home to Surrey,” Lord Colford said.

  “She did. And Anne never in her life sounded like that anyway. What’s happening, Carson?”

  Before the butler could answer, Perkins came out of the reception room and closed the door firmly behind him. His face was the deep purple of a ripe plum, and Thorne wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam rising from his head.

  “Are you in some difficulty, Perkins?” Thorne asked cheerfully.

  “No, my lord. At least not personally.”

  “That sounded quite personal to me,” Colford commented.

  Perkins ignored him. “The young… lady… says her business is with you, my lord,” he told Thorne. “She says, in fact, that she is your ward.” Doubt dripped from Perkins’ voice.

  “Ward,” Thorne said thoughtfully. “My ward? No, nothing comes to mind. What’s the young lady’s name?”

  “She seems to have none. At least, she has refused to confide in me with that information, my lord.”

  “One of your indiscretions coming home to roost, Thorne?” Colford asked jovially.

  Just then the door opened again and a small whirlwind came out—a very young woman dressed in frilly pale-pink muslin that made her curly red hair look like a wildfire. She marched up to Perkins and put her small face right into his. “You can’t keep me locked up in here. I must see Lord Hawthorne right now. I am his ward, and I have every right…” Belatedly, she seemed to notice the newcomers. “Oh. That’s all right then. I forgive you.”

  “I live to serve,” Perkins said under his breath.

  The whirlwind paused. “I do tend to ride roughshod, don’t I? My apologies, Perkins.” She bestowed a smile on him. Suddenly her eyes sparkled, her elfin face shifted from striking to uncommonly beautiful, and warmth swept over the group. Even her hair seemed to stop bristling.

  Thorne noticed that Colford had rocked back on his heels. Even Perkins looked quite dazed—for a moment.

  The whirlwind turned to Thorne and Colford. “My lord…” Doubt sprang into her eyes. “Er… which of you is Lord Hawthorne?”

  Thorne bowed. “At your service, Miss…”

  “Baxter. Georgiana Baxter. I’m your ward.”

  “Now I remember,” Thorne said. “But actually—no, you’re not.”

  Perkins nodded as if to say, I knew it. Then, as a myriad of other possible relationships—each one more scandalous than the last—obviously occurred to him, he drew himself up even straighter.

  “I’m the trustee of your property, Miss Baxter,” Thorne said, “but not the guardian of your person. That would be—if I remember correctly—Sir Rufus Baxter.”

  “That is true,” the whirlwind, now somewhat muted, said. “But my Uncle Rufus has proven completely incompetent, which is why I’ve come to you. You must save me, my lord!”

  “From what?” Thorne eyed her warily. “Where is your maid?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Without taking his eyes off her, he said, “Perkins, go over to Number 5 Upper Seymour Street, and requestMrs. Mason to come here immediately.”

  Perkins looked outraged. Thorne wondered if he objected to being sent on an errand that would normally be delegated to a footman or if he was irritated at being required to leave before finding out exactly what the whirlwind wanted. But he said, “Yes, my lord,” and departed.

  “I hardly need a chaperone present to consult with my guardian,” the whirlwind said. “Oh, very well, trustee.”

  “Nevertheless,” Thorne said firmly, “since you have shown the bad judgment to mislay your maid somewhere, you shall have a chaperone.”

  “I didn’t mislay her. I sneaked away from her so she couldn’t report to Uncle Rufus where I was going.”

  “My point precisely. Have the goodness to wait in the reception room until Mrs. Mason arrives, and then she will bring you to me.”

  “But I’ve been waiting hours already!”

  “Therefore, another ten minutes need not distress you unduly,” Thorne said.

  The whirlwind stamped her foot, crossed her arms, and seemed to take root in the hallway. Thorne ignored her and gestured Colford ahe
ad of him into the library.

  “So is she one of your indiscretions, Thorne? I wouldn’t have thought you old enough. She must be seventeen, at least.”

  Thorne refused to take the bait. “Her father was Colonel Baxter. I served under him at the War Office for a while. He died at Waterloo.”

  “And left you saddled with that termagant?”

  “In company with her Uncle Rufus, of course,” Thorne mused. “I seem to have got the better end of the deal—until now.”

  “Her Uncle Rufus, the completely incompetent. I wonder what he did to gain that title. Cut back on her pin money? Prevent her from eloping with the music master? Give away her puppy?” Colford shook his head. “You have my sympathies.”

  “Thank you, Colford. They are much appreciated.”

  Perkins knocked on the library door and came in.

  “And to think I’ve actually said I would like to have daughters,” Thorne mused.

  Perkins’ face went rigid with disapproval. His mind had obviously followed the same track as Colford’s had, for he seemed to think Thorne was admitting that Miss Baxter was his daughter.

  Thorne considered straightening out Perkins’ misapprehension, but he decided not to bother. If Perkins was contemplating his employer’s moral lapses, at least he’d stop prosing on about canals—for a few minutes, at least. “Are they all such dramatic creatures at that age? What on earth was I thinking, wanting a couple of those around the house?”

  “That,” Colford said, “is why there are boarding schools for young ladies.”

  “I’ll remember that. I wonder why this chit isn’t in one. Yes, Perkins?”

  “Mrs. Mason has just arrived, and is with the—with Miss Baxter. Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  “Yes… find out what’s happened to Sir Rufus Baxter and whether he is indeed completely incompetent as charged.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Perkins cleared his throat. “Will the young lady be remaining long?”

  “I have no idea, Perkins.” Thorne poured himself a brandy. “Care for one, Colford?”

  “Certainly. But I thought you weren’t drinking brandy anymore,” Colford said.

  “Anne’s in Surrey, and I need a bracer. I have a feeling I’m in for a siege.” Thorne drained his glass and faced Perkins. “Now you may send Mrs. Mason in—with the whirlwind.”

  Six

  MY LADY FLAME

  London had changed a great deal—and not all for the better—since the last time Julian had been home. The streets were busier, the smell of horses was stronger, and the tradesmen hawking their wares were noisier. He was relieved to reach Portman Square, where he summoned a street urchin to hold his horse while he strode up the stairs to the glossy, red front door of the Earl of Hawthorne’s town house. Thorne could hardly be expected to be at home at this hour of the afternoon, of course—or even in London at this time of year. But if Julian was lucky, the butler would tell him where his lordship could be found.

  On the other hand, the butler was just as likelyto take one look at Julian and inform him that tramps and other undesirables weren’t welcome—or that he should present himself at the kitchen entrance instead, if he was begging for a handout. Unless Mason hadn’t yet retired; Mason would surely remember him…

  Julian tried to brush off his uniform, but there was no removing the grime of a long day in the saddle, much less the wear of four years of war, with the wave of a hand.

  However, only by the merest flicker of an eyelash did the butler—not Mason, Julian was sorry to see—betray his consternation at finding a road-worn soldier on the step. “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m Major Hampton. Is my cousin, Lord Hawthorne, at home?”

  “I shall enquire,” the butler said. “If the major will follow me?”

  Julian was shown into a small reception room that he remembered from his last visit to this house. It had been a dark, formal little hole, chilly even on the warmest of days. Now, at the very end of summer, a fire blazed on the hearth; a bunch of orange and yellow flowers stood on a table in the center of the room; and comfortable chairs were scattered about. Better and better, Julian thought, warming himself at the fire. It seemed the gossip was right—and if so, perhaps this new wife of Thorne’s wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

  The door opened, and Thorne burst in. “Julian! About time you showed up. It’s taken you an age to get home. Come into the library.” With an arm around Julian’s shoulders, Thorne ushered him across the hall, gave him a glass of wine and a chair by the fire, and sat down across from him. “That street urchin of yours is taking your horse around to the stables… You told Carson you’re Major Hampton?”

  “It’s still my name.” Julian knew he sounded defensive. “It’s hard to remember the other.”

  “Well, yes. But you’ll get used to it soon enough.”

  “And it’s still my rank, at least for a while—half pay and all.”

  “I imagine our grandfather has made it clear he expects you to sell out.”

  “No doubt he has. Just not directly to me.”

  Thorne looked astounded. “The Old Man has held his tongue on that topic?”

  “I haven’t seen him,” Julian admitted. “I stopped at the War Office and then came straight here. I’m just not up to seeing the Old Man right away—and I didn’t go all the way across the Peninsula on Wellington’s staff without learning to choose my battlegrounds.”

  “I should think not. Where are you staying?”

  “I was going to beg to join your bachelor establishment, if I found you at home. Then the gossips at the War Office told me you’ve gone and gotten married—so I sent my batman to the Red Dragon on the Islington Road. Remember when you and I used to go there with a couple of very eager ladies?”

  Thorne smiled.

  It was, Julian thought, an amused, nostalgic smile—as if he was reliving the days before marriage had tied him down. Julian smothered a sigh to see Thorne with his wings clipped. “I see you do. Those were the days, Thorne. Now you’re married, and I’m…”

  But Thorne had reached for the bellpull, and the butler came in just then. “Send James out to the Red Dragon,” Thorne told him, “to inform Major Hampton’s batman that the major will be staying in Portman Square, so he’s to bring the baggage along at his earliest convenience. Then have a guest suite prepared for the major and a room for his batman.”

  The butler bowed and went away.

  Julian said, “Your wife won’t mind you acquiring an uninvited houseguest?”

  “As it happens, this is a bachelor establishment. Anne’s in Surrey—she’ll be there until after the baby arrives at Christmastime—and I only came back to London for a few days to transact some business.”

  “It’s a lucky thing I found you, then. But if you’ll only be here a few days…”

  “The business has turned out to be a bit more complex than I expected,” Thorne said ruefully. “If Anne discovers you’re here, she’ll be posting straight back to town and pounding on the door, despite the doctor’s orders. And if I were to let you stay at an inn, she’d be pounding on me.”

  “You’re letting the muslin company set the rules? You amaze me.”

  “Times change.” Thorne contemplated his cousin. “I’m sorry, Julian. I know it’s not what you planned—Cousin Aubrey sticking his spoon in the wall.”

  “Oh, I’m sure there are advantages to the situation. Someday I may even think of one or two.” Julian scowled. “Why couldn’t it have been you instead of me, Thorne?”

  “I presume you’re not asking me to explain the laws of inheritance?”

  “Of course not. But you look the part—especially when you put your head back and sneer down your nose like that.”

  “I practice,” Thorne said dryly.

  “It shows.” Julian couldn’t stop himself from yawning. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  Thorne stood up. “Your room will be ready by now. I’ll send my valet along to—”

>   “I don’t need help to get out of my coat for a catnap, Thorne. Lord knows I’ve slept in my uniform—when I’ve slept at all—for days on end sometimes.”

  “Then I’ll see you at dinner. Eight o’clock.”

  The butler showed Julian up to a guest suite. Like the reception room, it had a new, lighter look than Julian had remembered. Lord, had four years really passed since he’d last been in London?

  Julian dropped his coat on the back of a chair, struggled to pull off his boots, and sank with a sigh of relief onto the bed, still wearing the rest of his clothes. He’d barely been still for days. The trip across France had been long, the Channel crossing had been a rough one, and he’d scarcely set foot on land again before he’d climbed onto a horse and started for London.

  Not that there was any enormous hurry in getting home. Aubrey Silsby had died nearly two months earlier. The funeral had been over long before word had reached the distant post where Julian had been stationed since Waterloo. The black-edged letter from his grandfather had been delivered by the same courier who had brought Julian’s official orders from the War Office to return to England.

  So he had come home… though he wasn’t quite certain whether he was obeying his commanding officer or his grandfather. He supposed it didn’t really matter. The result was the same.

  The bed felt as if it was rocking—as though he were still on horseback or even on the Channel. Julian closed his eyes and knew no more.

  ***

  They dined casually, to Julian’s great relief. A short nap had taken the edge off his exhaustion, a bath had restored his spirits, and a uniform that had been sponged and pressed by Thorne’s valet made him feel a new man—at least until he reached the drawing room and compared himself to his elegant cousin. His best uniform looked painfully weather-beaten next to Thorne’s dark blue coat and flawless white linen.