Wickedly Ever After

  “Thank you.” He followed her into the sitting room, where a bay window looked out onto the street. “I must say I was surprised at your invitation. I’ve tried repeatedly to get an interview with you, but my requests went unanswered.”

  Athena sat on the long couch. “Let’s just say I’ve tired of reading fiction.”

  Nance chuckled softly, sitting opposite her. “Journalism is not a scientific profession, Miss McAllister. Lack of information leads one to a scintilla of creativity. When there are too many holes in a story, the writer must stitch them up as best he can.”

  Her eyes glinted in pique. “Stitching, perhaps, but you seem to prefer placing patches over yours. Large, incongruous, and totally fabricated patches.”

  Nance shrugged. “My job is to sell papers, Miss McAllister.”

  “That’s odd. I thought your job was to print the truth.”

  Nance studied her intently. “Truth is relative—and often uninteresting. Secrets, Miss McAllister—secrets are the birthplace of successful journalism. From them the best stories take shape.”

  She nodded slowly. “The meaning of which is that the best stories must by definition be scathing exposés.”

  “Not always, but usually.”

  “An exposé that is colored by your perspective.”

  “Every journalist is a moralist. It is impossible to report something without adding the writer’s personal judgment.”

  “You mean it’s effortless to do so. It’s far easier to pontificate on a matter than it is to actually explain it.”

  Nance sighed heavily. “I’m not a scientist, Miss McAllister. I don’t explain things. I just communicate them. And that is what I hope that you will help me to do here today—communicate your story.”

  “How can I be sure that you will report this story as it is, rather than as you see it?”

  Nance pulled out a pad and a pencil. “I shall represent the facts as best I can. Tell me about the School for the Womanly Arts.”

  Athena did so. She told him how she bought the Pleasure Emporium from its former owner, Lady Ponsonby, with the sole purpose of setting up a school for spinsters to learn the art of attracting and acquiring a husband. In addition to the ladylike pursuits of child-rearing, embroidery, and culture, her students would also learn the lessons of the seductress—engaging in intercourse without intercourse.

  Beads of perspiration broke out on Nance’s upper lip as he furiously scribbled onto his pad all that Athena said. Athena could almost read the headlines he was hatching even as she spoke.

  “Where did the money come from for this enterprise?”

  “Lady Hester Willett provided the capital from her own funds.”

  “Hester the Investor,” he muttered as he wrote. “And Lord Warridge . . . what is his role in all of this?”

  “You mean Captain Hawkesworth? He was our artist’s model.”

  “Your model?”

  Athena nodded innocently. She went to a cupboard underneath the bay window and pulled out her sketchpad. “See? Here he is.”

  Nance greeted the sketchbook with saucer-eyed avarice. “Lord Warridge modeled nude for all of you?”

  “Yes.”

  Nance was quickly running out of paper onto which his increasingly illegible notes were scripted.

  “I realize it’s rather early for it, Mr. Nance, but you look as if you could do with a glass of brandy. Would you care for some?”

  “Er, yes, thank you.”

  “I would ring for Gert, but I’m keeping her hopelessly busy now. Could I impose upon you to bring it in?”

  “Er, certainly. Where is it?”

  “There’s a decanter over by the Roman bath.”

  Nance arose, careful to take his notes with him, and walked to the end of the hallway and down the stairs. A few moments later, he came back up with a decanter and two glasses. He poured some for her and some for himself, downed his glass, then poured himself some more.

  “Your students . . . are they all from noble families?”

  “No. Some are untitled, from families of modest means, ousted from their brothers’ or uncles’ homes by intolerant wives. They were working as governesses to keep body and soul together. The only thing all my students have in common is the fact that they have not been able to attract a husband. That is, until they came here.”

  Athena waited until his pencil slowed over the paper. “So tell me, Mr. Nance, now that I have told the facts as they are, what do you intend to print?”

  Nance grinned at her. “Only the most infamous story ever put to paper. This one will beat the Capo-faro murders, the assassination of Prime Minister Percival . . . it’ll even sell more papers than news of the end of the war!”

  “Mr. Nance,” Athena said, “you misunderstand my intention. I expect you to print a retraction of everything you’ve written about me, my school, and all of my students.”

  Nance’s shoulders bucked in mirthless laughter. “With all due respect, Miss McAllister, no one dictates to me what I write in my paper. Least of all someone no better than a common procuress.”

  The door from the dining room opened and Marshall stormed in, a scowl carved into his features. “Perhaps I can offer some additional inducement.” He seized Nance by the lapels and lifted him off his heels.

  “Warridge!” Nance smiled. “Can’t seem to leave the Pleasure Emporium, can you?”

  “Nor will you, except on an undertaker’s stretcher.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said a voice from the doorway. “Lord Warridge, release that man at once.”

  With a growl, Marshall let him go. Nance smoothed his coat and turned around. “Who are you?”

  “I am Margaret, Duchess of Twillingham.” The duchess folded herself onto a chair, and rested her papery hand on her cane. “And you, sir, will find it in your best interest to recant everything you’ve printed about this woman in your newspaper.”

  “Your threats are wasted on me, Your Grace. I don’t respond to intimidation.” He cast a meaningful glance at Marshall. “Of any sort.”

  The duchess didn’t answer. She took a long, slow look around the room, lost in thought. “I never would have thought I would step through the door of this building. I had hoped, many times, that this place would burn to the ground . . . just disappear from existence. The Pleasure Emporium, it used to be called, but it never afforded me anything but misery. When I stop to think of the number of marriages that have been damaged by the women who have inhabited these walls . . .” Her voice trailed off. “But I admit I have been a shade too harsh on the women who plied their trade, and not harsh enough on the men who gave them their custom.”

  “Your Grace knows this establishment,” remarked Nance.

  “And so do you, Mr. Nance. Or should I address you as Lord Essworthy?”

  The name was like an arrow into Nance’s flesh. “Who is Lord Essworthy?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Essworthy,” she said imperiously. “Your peccadilloes are well known to everyone.”

  Marshall’s gaze bounced from the duchess to Nance. “Essworthy? I know that name. He was an army officer . . . formally charged with desertion and neglect of duty during that business in Ireland. He underwent a general court-martial.”

  “And was convicted,” continued the duchess. “He was to be imprisoned for a period of five years. But he escaped the clutches of his guards, and disappeared. Until a man named Edward Nance turned up at this very establishment.”

  “That’s a lie. I’ve never been here before.”

  “But you have, Mr. Nance,” said Athena. “You knew precisely where the brandy was kept. If you had never been here, how would you have known that the Roman bath was in the cellar?”

  Nance hesitated. “Most people keep brandy in the cellar.”

  The duchess opened her reticule and fished out an object. “But only one person could have in his possession this.” She handed it to Marshall.

  Marshall turned the gold pocket watch over i
n his hands. “It’s engraved. Essworthy.”

  “That isn’t mine,” declared Nance.

  “It was when you gave it to my husband two years ago.” The duchess turned to Marshall. “The Pleasure Emporium was an establishment much renowned among gentlemen of the upper classes. It boasted some of the most beautiful women in the world, ladies of quality mostly, who offered their services to gentlemen who could afford them. It shames me to admit it, but my husband was one of that select clientele who patronized this establishment. I found that watch among my husband’s possessions two years ago. In the midst of our quarrel, he admitted to me that he had met a man called Nance here, who had given him that timepiece in exchange for the membership fee. He told me that you two prided yourself in sharing the same girl.”

  “You’ve found me out, Your Grace,” said Nance, a mirthless smile on his lips. “I admit coming to the Pleasure Emporium once or twice. And although I am flattered by the attribution to nobility, I am not this Lord Essworthy you speak of. My name is Edward Nance.”

  Marshall pocketed the watch. “Then you have no objection to presenting yourself before the judge advocate general who tried the officer named Essworthy just to prove your innocence.”

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you,” he said, sneering.

  “Do you have any idea what the penalty is for escaping from military detainment? That merciful sentence of imprisonment you received would be stiffened . . . to execution.”

  Nance dashed for the door, but Marshall, who was larger and stronger, grabbed him and tossed him to the floor. “You’re not going anywhere. Your days of flight are over. You’re about to feel the full, crushing weight of Britain’s justice system upon you.”

  Beads of perspiration broke out on Nance’s face. “It was a long time ago, Warridge. Almost twenty years. That business has long been over.”

  “Not to the military. The Crown has a long memory for deserters . . . and fugitives from the law.”

  Nance brought himself to his knees. “You can’t turn me over to them. I didn’t belong in the service. My father bought that commission to give me a future. I was the second son of a second son. I stood to inherit nothing. It was either that or the clergy, and I certainly wasn’t cut out for the cloth. But I didn’t realize how poorly prepared I was for the army until that war. It was horrible, brutal. And I was so young. So I fled, never thinking the infantrymen of my regiment would turn me over to the colonel.”

  Marshall’s lip curled in disgust. “You’re a wretched coward, to be sure. Leaving your own men to face the rebels without a leader.”

  “We were going to lose that war. It was a bloodbath. There were casualties everywhere. I’m not proud of what I did, but I’d probably do it all again. I haven’t even seen my family since my arrest. They probably think I’ve died or fled the country. Or perhaps hoped I have. I’ve built another life as Edward Nance. And oddly enough, I’m good at what I do.”

  Athena shook her head. “You may be good at your profession, but it does no good to anyone else. You’re nothing but a verbal arsonist, Mr. Nance. All you do with your stories is set fires in others’ lives, and then you sit back and watch them burn. You destroy people’s dignity, reducing us to grist for your rumor mill.”

  Nance looked back at Marshall. “A-all right. I’ll do as the duchess says. I’ll print a retraction. I’ll say the articles were written upon the word of a corrupt and unreliable source.”

  “Which would be nothing more than the truth,” Athena emphasized.

  “And I’ll admit my error,” he continued. “But please, don’t remand me to the authorities. It would appease no one and resolve nothing.”

  Marshall hung his head, weighted by the intensity of his thoughts. His fists pumped open and closed. After several long moments, he straightened. “Very well. I’ll let you keep your assumed identity. For now.” He bent over to bring his gaze on a level with Nance’s. “But know this: if you flee, or betray my leniency, there isn’t a square foot in England you can hide in where I won’t find you. Do we understand one another?”

  Nance nodded. Stiffly, he came to his feet.

  “There is another condition, Mr. Nance,” said Athena. “The reason I’ve shared every detail of this school and its students with you is so that you may place it in your vault of secrecy. If I should read about anything or anyone I’ve mentioned here today—written by you or anyone else—I shall know you’ve betrayed our confidence. In which case, you can expect us to betray yours. Are we clear on that point?”

  “Quite clear.” Nance put on his hat, took one more look at the faces in the room, and quietly skulked out.

  “What a disagreeable man,” said the duchess, rising from the chair. Leaning heavily on her cane, she made her way to the door.

  “Your Grace,” said Athena, “can I persuade you to take some tea or refreshment before you go?”

  She swiveled on her cane. “My dear, this house offers no rest for me. You can call a frog a prince, but it doesn’t change the fact that it is still a frog. Likewise, no matter what it says on the door, this place will always be the Pleasure Emporium.” A liveried footman was waiting for her at the front door to escort her down the steps.

  Athena leaned upon the closed door, a sigh billowing out from the depths of her relief. She looked up. Marshall was staring at her intently.

  “You never fail to surprise me, Miss Athena McAllister. So that’s where you were all night . . . enlisting the duchess’s help.”

  “As Her Grace likes to say, there is little that is left undiscovered when one frequents Almack’s. I decided that if Nance wanted to destroy our reputations, then I should do a little digging into his background. The duchess secured the information I needed, and I must say I was surprised at just how lurid it turned out to be.”

  “But the duchess was your adversary. How did you get her to—” Illumination dawned on his features. “Ah. You gave her Kildairon.”

  Athena shrugged. “Well . . . until a few weeks ago, I didn’t even know I had a reserve of gold. Besides, these ladies are worth far more than just a few yellow rocks.”

  He walked up to her. “I know of one in particular who is,” he said, lowering his lips to within a hairsbreadth of hers.

  His presence aroused longings she had kept under wraps these many days without him. She raised herself toward him, and their lips met.

  Some kisses taste sweeter for their absence. But Marshall’s lips awoke dormant yearnings that were anything but sweet. They wanted to possess and consume, and their strength surprised her.

  His hands came around her back, pulling her closer. And it was exactly what she wanted. If she could somehow fuse her body with his, she would.

  His fingers went to the back of her neck, and the sensation sent shivers skipping down her spine. He released her lips, but his mouth began to press warm, wet kisses down her jaw. “Now that my modeling career . . . is over . . . I find myself . . . in need of . . . employment.”

  The words barely registered through the fog of her pleasure. “Well, I know of an opening you could fill . . . that is, there is a position you could take . . .”

  He chuckled deeply into the turn of her neck. “The turns your mind takes. Am I to infer that you want me for more than just modeling?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said with barely concealed enthusiasm.

  “That will cost you.”

  A smile cut across her face. She went to her reticule, still in the foyer, and reached in it. Then she opened his palm, and placed something in it.

  It was the two raw gold nuggets they had found in Kildairon. His eyes met hers.

  “And for those wages,” she said, her eyes glinting, “it had better be good.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  The light in the window of Hester’s boudoir grew stronger by the second. Hester looked in the mirror appreciatively once her maid, Rivers, pinned the final curl in place. It was a beautiful coif—Rivers had the brilliant idea of weaving into her dark tresse
s a pearl necklace that used to belong to her grandmother. The effect was stunning, and it would match her ivory dress becomingly.

  “Rivers, help me get dressed. I want to be at the church early in case Athena should become nervous.”

  The maid extinguished the candles flickering near the dressing mirror. “Little chance of that, ma’am. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Miss Athena anything less than surly.”

  “Don’t let that prickly exterior fool you. Athena has worn a mask for most of her life, shaped by pride and self-protection. But I have a feeling that today we’re going to get a good look at the real Athena McAllister, the girl behind the guise.”

  Just as Rivers held the dress aloft for Hester to step into, a gentle knock sounded at the door.

  “Come in,” said Hester.

  Thomas opened the door, wearing a charcoal-colored coat and a dove-gray waistcoat. With the silver in his hair and the gray-blue eyes, Hester thought he looked a picture, much like he did the day she married him. Except today he was wearing something she hadn’t seen before: an expression devoid of pretension.

  “Rivers, could you give your mistress and me a moment alone?” With a brief curtsy, the maid placed the dress on the bed and closed the door behind her.

  “You look lovely.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Thomas. I’m not even dressed yet, so I shall hold that compliment in abeyance until I’m ready for the public.”

  There was no hint of a smile, as if the gentle joke didn’t register. There was something else on his mind, and it weighted down even the air between them.

  “Please sit down, Hester. There’s something I must tell you.”

  A thousand emotions went through her head, none of them happy ones. Her pearls quivered as she perched herself on the cushioned bench.

  Thomas reduced himself to one knee. She hadn’t seen it before, but behind his back he held a package, and he placed it on her lap. “Open it.”

  Her fingers trembled as she unfastened the bow around the box. She lifted the lid.

  “What is it?” she asked, even as she lifted the square, black silk cloth-lined headdress. A tassel hung from the center button.