“When do you leave for the Continent, Hilary?”
The poet jerked his powdered head at the closed double doors leading into the blue withdrawing room, where stood two liveried footmen. “Any moment I shouldn’t wonder. Coach loaded up with portmanteaux; horses hitched for Dover. No sooner had I made my bow to Lady Salt than Pascoe shoves me out here to kick me heels with the cold marble so she can have a private word with her ladyship. What about is anybody’s guess. Females!”
“My lord,” Arthur Ellis interrupted, “there is the tennis match… Mr. Allenby arrived some thirty minutes ago. Jenkins sent him directly to the tennis court…”
“Thank you, Arthur. Who is having a private word with Lady Salt?”
The poet seemed not to hear the question because he had suddenly noticed that Arthur Ellis was holding tight to his Malacca cane and grabbed it from him with a scowl, as if the secretary had meant to keep it. “Gift from Pascoe. Can’t have it. He’ll have my guts for garters.”
“Wraxton! Who is with Lady Salt?” the Earl demanded, though he had a fair idea who it was, he just didn’t want to believe the woman had the audacity to come to the house he shared with his wife, and that Pascoe had allowed it. Worse, that she had come with the specific intention of speaking to his bride.
The poet stared at the Earl as if he was the village idiot.
“Lizzie. Lizzie Outram. You knew her before Pascoe. Remember? Salt?”
But the Earl was not attending him. In five strides he was at the double doors. In three more he was inside the room unannounced. Standing by the fireplace was Pascoe, Lord Church and a few feet away, by the arrangement of chairs, the under-butler Willis, grim-faced and with his hands behind his back. And there, standing by the striped sofa was his forsaken mistress Elizabeth, Lady Outram in tête-à-tête with his wife. Both women looked about at the sudden intrusion; Elizabeth Outram to drop into a respectful curtsey, Jane to regard her husband with a tremulous smile and a deep blush to her throat and cheeks that sent his heart racing and his mind reeling.
SIXTEEN
AN HOUR EARLIER, while the Earl was ensconced in his bookroom discussing the terms of the Peace and Continental politics, the Countess had returned from the Strand to the news that Pascoe, Lord Church and his shadow Hilary Wraxton had come to call on her and were waiting patiently in the downstairs blue withdrawing room. It had been suggested by Jenkins that the guests return on a more suitable day, but as the butler pointed out to Willis, who had come in off the square behind the Countess and her maid, the gentlemen were adamant that no other day would do; they were departing for foreign climes almost at once.
Willis would have excused himself to prepare for his meeting with his lordship, but when Jenkins added that there was a third occupant in the withdrawing room, and she a female unknown to any of the servants of his lordship’s household, but on sight looked an interesting individual Willis was alerted. Interesting in the butler’s vocabulary meant highly unsuitable company for the young Countess, and so exchanging a worried glance with Anne, Willis decided that it was in the best interests of the House of Sinclair to follow the Countess into the room. He made a lame excuse about having left the Countess’s appointment diary, of which he was keeper, in that very room and perhaps when the visitors had departed her ladyship would do him the kindness of going over one or two matters that required her urgent attention. Before the Countess could object, her maid piped up with the suggestion that she would bring her ladyship a dish of Bohea tea with a slice of lemon.
Jane had had such an enjoyable afternoon strolling the picture exhibition with Elisabeth Sedley that she was determined the rest of the day would continue the same way. Even the inquisitive Society patrons, who jostled with one another to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Countess of Salt Hendon in the flesh, and whose closeness of perfume and pomade caused her morning sickness to be more acute, could not dampen her spirits. She had been grateful for the presence of Willis and Anne, for though they were distracted with one another (being on an outing together was truly a novelty) Willis always had one eye on the Countess and her comfort. So it was not in Jane’s nature to deflate the man’s concern by fobbing him off. She graciously accepted him at his word, though she found his excuse flimsy in the extreme, because she had a deep suspicion Anne had confided her pregnancy to Rufus Willis and that her condition had brought out the man’s protective instincts; he had become her self-appointed guardian angel.
It was in this capacity the under-butler entered the room, took a swift look about, and seeing a couple by the French window with its view of the expansive square, took up a position by the clavichord which was left of center to the room. As the Countess came across the parquetry the couple moved towards her and they all met on the deep Aubusson rug under the chandelier. Pascoe, Lord Church, in jockey boots and a traveling frock coat of brown velvet, bowed over Jane’s outstretched hand and then introduced Lady Outram, who curtseyed to rank.
Jane smiled at them both, only briefly allowing her gaze to linger on Pascoe Church’s companion and her striped petticoats and bodice of Florentine apple green and cherry red silk that showed her ample breasts to best advantage. Carefully applied cosmetics made it difficult to determine her age, though she was not in the first flush of youth. That said she was still a very beautiful woman who knew her own worth and expected others to know it too.
“May I offer you tea?” Jane asked, indicating the arrangement of sofas by the fireplace. She sat and the couple did likewise, side by side on the sofa opposite her. “I have been standing all morning looking at the most wonderful pictures and now my feet demand I rest. If you do not want tea I can send for coffee?”
“Thank you, my lady,” replied Elizabeth Outram. “A dish of Bohea would be most welcome before our journey.”
“We are on our way to Dover,” Pascoe Church offered, “and then on to Paris. Hilary and I could not quit London without taking our leave of you, and I insisted Lizzie make your acquaintance. As to when we will return to England…” He shrugged and looked at his female companion. “We may settle in Florence for a time.”
“Church has a cousin at the Embassy there,” Lady Outram offered. “But we mean to marry in Paris.”
“Oh! How delightful!” Jane said with genuine pleasure. “I do wish you both health and happiness. But I fear I do not have your talent for gift giving, Lord Church, so you will have to settle for a Sèvres tea service or a piece of silverware.”
Pascoe Church was suitably contrite. “As to that, my lady, I fear my jest was in very poor taste, and had I known you better then, I would never have sent—”
“I will not allow you to take back your gift. Viscount Fourpaws is very much part of the family. Ron and Merry St. John look forward to their visits with his fluffy lordship and spoil him with all manner of morsels from the kitchen. Why, even Salt has grown accustomed to Fourpaws, for he tolerates him to curl up at the foot of our bed in the morning—”
“Tea, my lady!”
It was Willis and he had rudely cut off the Countess mid-sentence, judging the run of conversation too personal for present company, but in so doing, drawing attention to the comfortable intimacy between the Countess and her noble husband. If she realized her social faux pas, Jane kept it to herself and while doing the honors with the silver teapot and chinoiserie porcelain tea dishes, made polite conversation about the couple’s travel plans. She was, however, acutely aware of the intense scrutiny of her female guest.
The woman said very little, allowing Pascoe Church to talk freely while she sipped at her tea and appraised the young Countess over the rim of her delicate dish. Always abreast of the latest fashions, be it in fabric, style or cut of the cloth, Elizabeth Outram judged Jane’s pretty silk petticoats with delicate fruits of the vine embroidery to be not overtly ostentatious of wealth, position or power, yet the richness of the embroidery and the way the day-gown was molded to the Countess’s lithe frame spoke volumes about the expertise of her dressmakers. She wore
no jewelry about her throat or from her small ears, yet none was necessary for such unblemished skin. Her only adornments were a bejeweled wedding band and a pale yellow silk riband threaded through her upswept glossy black hair.
For the wife of one of the richest noblemen in the country and thus with access to all manner of extravagant fabrics, gowns and jewelry, the Countess was self-restraint personified. But it was not only her choice of attire that intrigued Elizabeth Outram but the young woman herself.
She observed that Jane sat with back straight and hands lightly in her lap; that her head tilted ever so slightly to the left when listening; that her blue eyes were kind and her smile genuine; that despite her youth, she was self-possessed; that she exhibited genuine interest and truly enjoyed their company. Indeed, there was no artifice in her manner whatsoever. Yet, what surprised Elizabeth most was that the young Countess was precisely as Pascoe had described: Beautiful inside and out.
If she was to find fault, it was with Lady Salt’s mouth. Despite being full and ruby red, her top lip was too short and her bottom lip too full so that when she wasn’t smiling she appeared to be always pouting. But to men, one man in particular, such a mouth would be intoxicatingly inviting. Elizabeth Outram well understood why the Earl demanded nothing less than this mouth to kiss.
Tea savored and drained, Pascoe Church’s female companion placed the delicate dish on its little saucer and put both on the low walnut side table to unfurl her fan and flutter air across her breasts. She had come to a decision, and turned to Pascoe to make a request when a barely visible servant door cut into the wallpaper beside the fireplace squeaked opened and a powdered head appeared, diverting the tea drinkers in the direction of the fireplace.
“Pssst. Pascoe! I found one!”
It was Hilary Wraxton and he climbed out of the servant corridor, leaving wide the door so that the dark narrow passage and the stairs beyond were on public view. He tottered across to the sofas in his heels, brushing down the sleeves of his silk frock coat, and with his powdered head bent forward to check that the four horn buttons of the fall of his breeches were done up. Willis immediately crossed behind the poet to close the servant door and received a scold for his tractable efficiency.
“Oi! Not so fast! Not so fast! Lord Church may want use of the pot! It’s a long way to Dover, my man. A long way indeed.”
Pascoe Church rolled his eyes and by a lift of his brows let it to be known to Willis that he was to close over the servant door.
“I don’t know why you would not wait, Hilary,” Pascoe complained. “It’s not as if we won’t stop at an inn along the way.”
“An inn?” Hilary Wraxton was horrified. “I can’t pee at an inn.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Perfectly good pot de chambre in there. Clean. Just how I like ’em.”
“Wraxton! Must you?” It was Lady Outram whose face had fired red under her rouge.
“Well, yes, Lizzie, I must. Perfectly reasonable. Perfectly natural, a call of nature.” Hilary Wraxton made a low bow to Jane, the lace at his wrists sweeping the rug. “Don’t you agree, my lady?”
But Jane was giggling behind her fingertips and could not speak, but not because of the poet’s blunt pronouncements but at the look of horrified embarrassment on the faces of her under-butler and Lord Church.
“How will you travel across the Continent if you cannot make a call of nature when we stop at an inn?” Lady Outram enquired.
The poet, who had perched uninvited on the padded arm of a wingchair, jabbed at his temple. “Up here for thinking, Lizzie. I am not just a man of letters, but of ideas.” He beamed at the Countess and said confidentially, “Had my man pack the family pot de chambre. Heirloom. Passed down from father to son since Scottish James sat upon the English throne. Painted with the family crest. On the inside.”
“How-how sensible of you, Mr. Wraxton,” Jane managed to reply, finding her breath and dabbing at her damp eyes. “A definite must for a trip to the Continent. Who knows what amenities are to be found, or not, at a foreign inn.”
“Attend, Lizzie! Pascoe! Her ladyship understands. Knew you would, my lady.”
“Please, my lady, I beg you not to encourage him,” Pascoe Church complained good-naturedly.
“Oh dear. Mr. Willis’ frown tells me that I am in his bad book for finding humor in Mr. Wraxton’s candid conversation,” Jane confided. “Forgive me, Lady Outram. I am still quite new to my role and Mr. Willis is helping me to behave as I ought. But to own to a truth, if I am not myself I find I make an even bigger muddle of my elevation.”
“What did I tell you, Lizzie; breath of fresh air,” the poet stated as if Elizabeth Outram had ever doubted his word. “And what did Pascoe tell you? What!” He put his closed fist to his left breast and with his eyes to the ornate plastered ceiling sighed dramatically. “Her ladyship’s sweet nature makes her beautiful inside and out.”
Again Jane giggled, but this time she managed to say with a grave face, “How will I survive my days without your devotion and your poetry, Mr. Wraxton?”
The poet’s gaze came down from the ceiling and he plunged a hand into the pocket of his frock coat and struggled to remove a wad of parchment tied up with ribbon. “See, Pascoe! I told you she would not be able to—
“Enough, Hilary,” Lord Church said stridently and pushed the wad of parchments back into his friend’s pocket; Willis a step behind him should he require assistance. He took his friend by the elbow. “Time to make your farewell bow to Lady Salt.”
Elaborate leaving-taking exchanged, the two gentlemen visitors disappeared out into the marble gallery, the poet heard loudly to complain that he had left the best bit ’til last and it was all Pascoe’s fault he was not able to execute his grand finale. Lady Outram remained, suggesting to the young Countess that they take a turn about the long rectangular room so that she could stretch her legs before the long carriage journey to Dover. They set off arm in arm, leaving Willis to stoke the fire to new life, a troubled eye on her ladyship.
“I am so pleased to have made your acquaintance, my lady,” Elizabeth Outram confessed. “When Church first proposed that he bring me to call on you I was most reluctant for reasons that will become apparent when you know who I am, or more precisely who I was. Church is the dearest of gentlemen and I am very fortunate he wishes to marry me despite my interesting past. He has always maintained he loved me, but I dismissed such talk as a lover’s throw away compliment. But since Lord Salt gave me my liberty, I’ve had these past three months to devote myself singularly to Church and we both came to the realization that we suit each other very well, very well indeed. Oh dear, I have shocked you.”
“No. Well, yes,” Jane admitted with a shy smile as they paused by a floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall opposite the French windows. “But, please, do not think I have taken offence. It’s just that I lived a sheltered life in the countryside before coming to London to marry his lordship; though not so sheltered that I am unaware that there are ladies who take lovers; just as gentlemen take mistresses.” She was puzzled. “But I own to being a little simple because I do not understand when you say Lord Salt gave you your-your liberty?”
“I was your husband’s mistress.”
It was a straightforward response but totally unexpected and it stopped Jane’s breathing. In fact, for the briefest of moments, she forgot where she was. She just knew she had to remain calm; she must not react. She gazed over Lady Outram’s left shoulder, across the room to the undraped French windows, having no wish to look at the woman beside her. She did not realize that only a few feet away Willis was hovering by the clavichord. He had followed them up the room and had pretended an interest in tidying the sheets of music on the padded clavichord stool.
Willis saw the Countess take a deep breath, and place a hand lightly to the base of her throat. That small movement brought him closer, close enough to notice signs of her acute embarrassment; across her décolletage and halfway up her throat the porcelain skin was stained with sm
udges of strawberry. Two sentences into Lady Outram’s continued conversation and he knew the reason behind the Countess’s silent distress.
“I was wretched when Salt ended our agreeable connection. What mistress wouldn’t be when her most talented lover announces he is to marry? Not that he showed me a singular devotion. Jenny, Susannah and Eliza were just as devastated to learn of his plans. But we never thought he would marry.” Lady Outram mistook Jane’s silence as a sign for her to continue, she took Jane’s arm and resumed their leisurely stroll of the perimeter of the decorative room. “I had every expectation of keeping his interest for at least another Season, so naturally I was the one to be most offended when he came to take his leave. Of course, I had not seen you then, or knew the first thing about you to make me believe Salt’s marriage was anything but a contractual arrangement to beget an heir. It seemed perfectly sensible that we should be able to continue our-our understanding. Many a nobleman has married with no thought of giving up his mistress. Why should they? Wives are for breeding. A mistress knows how to pleasure a lover.”
Elizabeth Outram glanced at her silent walking companion who stared straight ahead, saw the stain of deep color across her décolletage and reasoned it was only natural for a young bride to be uncomfortable by such candid conversation. Yet, it did not stop her forging ahead, her voice a little softer than before, but still loud enough for Willis to overhear, who was just one stride behind, ears burning brightly.
“But Church cured me of my petulance and misguided belief. Darling man. He said it was perfectly reasonable for a woman to be both wife and mistress if her husband loved her. That’s when I decided to marry him. It was only when Church told me your Christian name that I was able to make sense of Salt’s particular behavior. And that’s when I knew I had to see you before our travels.”
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