“Lettie died in childbed.”
Her voice caught, just a wisp, but her defiant stare never wavered. A hint of sympathy tempered his growing lust, and he met her eyes with all sincerity. “My condolences, Miss Fontaine.”
She gave a cool nod. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She took a breath, as if to compose herself. “Given that he is now motherless, I have come to discuss your son’s welfare with you.”
He gave a harsh laugh, compassion collapsing beneath reluctant admiration. “I have twice denied that the child is mine, Miss Fontaine. Perhaps you were not paying attention.”
“Lettie’s dying wish was that her son would be raised as a gentleman. Educated as befitting his station as the son of a duke.”
“Miss Fontaine, I admire your tenacity. However, your ruthless determination to brand me a liar is beginning to wear thin. Pay close attention.” He came to stand over her, locking his gaze with hers. “I am not this child’s father.”
Slowly, she stood. He did not move, but she did not fall back on the settee as he expected. Instead she straightened her small frame, her head only reaching his shoulder, until she stood practically in his arms, mere inches separating them. “It has been my experience that most men of power do not accept the consequences of their actions. I had hoped you would be different, Your Grace.”
Her words burned like salt rubbed in the wounds of his heart. Who was this mouthy chit to be ordering him about? Why did she come here, to his house, to remind him of all he had lost, all he had left to lose?
“I regret I must disappoint you. Good day, Miss Fontaine. Travers will escort you out.”
He turned away from her and left the room without a backward glance.
Bloody hell, but he was going back to bed.
Miranda entered the small, comfortable house and slammed the door behind her. The crash of the portal should have satisfied her simmering temper, but it did not.
“Arrogant prig,” she snapped, yanking off her gloves one at a time.
Thaddeus LeGrande came out of the parlor, a slumbering James on his shoulder. “I assume that matters did not go well.”
“They did not.” Some of her anger fizzled at the sight of the baby’s sleeping face. “Where is Mrs. Cooper?”
“She went to the market. I agreed to watch the young fellow until you returned.” He turned his head to glance at the infant out of the corner of his eye. “I never fancied myself a grandfather, but I imagine I would do quite well in the position.”
Miranda smiled as she untied her bonnet. “Considering this is Lettie’s child, you practically are his grandfather.”
“Poor Lettie.” The aging actor’s face sagged with grief. “She was so lovely. So talented. I would have seen to it that she was the toast of London.”
“I know.” She hung her bonnet on the peg beside the door. “That is why my mother sent her to you.”
“Another beautiful actress.” He smiled. “You look like her, you know.”
“My mother was stunning. I am but passable.” She peered at the baby. “Do you want me to take him?”
“Not quite yet.” Thaddeus laid a gentle hand on the child’s back. “He is no burden to me.”
“I wish his father had said the same.”
“Oh, dear.” He took her elbow with his other hand and guided her into the parlor, where a tray of tea and biscuits awaited. “Come and tell me what happened.”
Miranda sat down on the sofa and watched as he settled himself into his favorite armchair beside the cold fireplace. “You have gotten quite good at balancing our little man while accomplishing other tasks,” she teased.
“I have worn costumes on the stage that weighed more than he does.” He waved a hand at the tea tray. “Would you pour? I am eager to know what the duke said.”
She lifted the teapot and poured the steaming, fragrant liquid into one cup. “He said it is not his child.” She set down the pot and dropped two lumps of precious sugar into the cup, as Thaddeus liked it. “He showed me the door.”
“My goodness.” Thaddeus caught the saucer with one finger and dragged it across the table so he could reach the tea cup. “Personally?”
His wry tone drew a chuckle from her. “No, His Grace merely walked out of the room. His servant showed me the door.” She finished pouring her own cup of tea and put down the pot so she could look at him. “I admit I am disappointed, Thaddeus. I had hoped the man would do the honorable thing.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “You have much to learn about dukes, my dear, and Wyldehaven in particular.”
She took up her own tea, plain with not even a dab of sugar. “Perhaps you can tell me more. For someone not born to it, you seem to know everyone in the upper echelons of Society.”
His lips curved. “Mrs. Weatherby’s salon. The polite world mixes with the art world every Thursday night at that lady’s home. Even though I rarely perform any more, I still enjoy the company of my fellow thespians.”
“Of course you do.” She settled back on the sofa, keeping an ear alert should the child stir.
“Mrs. Weatherby’s salon is a wonderful place to discover the latest on dit,” Thaddeus said. “I have heard talk of Wyldehaven, both the father and the son.”
Miranda arched her brows. “Indeed?”
“The father was a terrible scapegrace.” Thaddeus’s voice settled into the deep drama of an orator. “There are scandals about him to this day, though he has been with Old Nick these past five years.”
“And the son?”
“He lost his wife about two years ago.” He sipped his tea. “And was in deep mourning for months, of course. Then no sooner did he cast off his mourning clothes, but he went a bit wild. Became the worst sort of gamester and rakehell here in London, feeding the gossips with his many exploits.”
“And was Lettie merely an exploit?” Miranda’s lips twisted. “Men of his ilk consider women merely playthings.”
“That I cannot answer.”
She sighed and looked once more on the baby’s sweet face. “He claimed he was not the father, Thaddeus,” she repeated.
“He told you so in the letter he wrote.”
“Yes, but I hoped that a personal encounter might make him admit that he did have an affair with Lettie. That he is James’s father. But he did not, which means I can expect no aid from him.”
Thaddeus sighed. “I wish I could have saved more of your inheritance, Miranda, but I selected that last investment poorly. You lost over half your dowry.”
“I’m glad to have any funds at all,” she said. “I cannot even fathom that Mama sent you money to put away for me.”
“I wondered why she had not sent anything in so long. But that did happen on occasion. Sometimes she did not send any money for several months.” He shook his head. “I did not even know she had died until you wrote to tell me about Lettie. And then when I could finally present you with your inheritance, one mediocre business decision nearly did away with it all.”
“I am still grateful. And you are lending me the use of your house. That is a tremendous boon.”
“Nonsense. Where else would you live? I do not mind staying at the hotel. It is more fitting for a decent woman like yourself to stay here.”
“Still, I appreciate it, as it will save me money while I am here in London.” She frowned. “But now that the duke has again rejected James, I must find some way of surviving here.”
“I thought you were employed in Little Depping? In the last letter your mother sent me, she mentioned that you were helping some rich old crone write her memoirs.”
“That ended when James came along.” Miranda glanced at the child again, her heart melting in her chest. “She did not appreciate that I needed to care for him, so I was dismissed.”
“Harridan,” Thaddeus sniffed.
His sneering tone made her giggle. “Now, Thaddeus.”
“Let her write her memoirs in her own scribbling hand,” he declared. “I shall help you find employment here i
n London.”
“That is most kind, Thaddeus, but—”
“No.” He held up a hand to silence her. “It is because of my bungling that you are in financial straits to begin with. Had I not invested in the wrong venture on your behalf, you would have a handsome dowry to attract a husband.”
“I do not want a husband, as I have told you several times.”
“I know you do not want the alternative—mistress to some wealthy nabob.”
“No.” Her stomach churned at just the thought, and she put down her tea to lay a hand against her midriff. “I saw what happened to my mama when she chose that path.”
“And you do not want young James to go to an orphanage.”
“No.” She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. “That above all is my worst fear.”
“Then you must let me help you.” He leaned forward as far as he could without disturbing the baby. “You are very beautiful. We must find a way to use that to your advantage.”
She shook her head. “I do not see how that will help. I have some schooling. I can write a fine hand and I can read and cipher. In fact, I did bookkeeping for the tavern where we lived. Surely I can find a position somewhere as a companion or clerk.”
“I would not recommend such a thing. I know you want to be valued for your skills, but just because you try to ignore your beauty does not mean others will. I fear you being forced against your will by one of your employers, and you would not be able to escape.”
“Then what else is there?” Despair sharpened her voice as she stood and began to pace around the sofa. “I do not wish to marry or whore myself. I will not put myself in a position where I am prisoner to the whims of a man. In Little Depping, I held three positions all at the same time: bookkeeping for two businesses, serving in the tavern, and helping Mrs. Etherington with her memoirs. Here in London, I offer to do a good day’s work for a day’s pay, and still I take the chance of rape or something worse. Curse me for being born a woman!”
Thaddeus laughed and banged his free hand on the table. “Brava, my dear! Such passion! Such fire! If the stage were not the surest way to fall under some man’s protection, I would suggest you look there.”
“I am no actress.” But she could not stop her lips from curving at the compliment.
“No, not an actress.” Thaddeus stood, his face rapt with the expression of a man who had glimpsed paradise. “A singer.”
“What?” She frowned. “How is that any different from being an actress?”
“Because a singer is an artist. A goddess. Someone who commands reverence.” He came toward her, a grin stretching across his face. “You could do it.”
“You have never even heard me sing.”
“But I have. I listened to you one evening as you sang the little one to sleep. You have an excellent voice. And if we tell everyone you are foreign…”
“Foreign! Are you mad?”
“Not at all.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “The English adore foreigners. Especially if they are mysterious. We can say you are…let me see…Italian.”
“But I am not.”
“Nonsense. Your dark hair, your lovely bone structure, your olive skin…You could be Italian.”
“I see.” She crossed her arms, amused. “And how am I supposed to become this goddess?”
He grinned like a young boy in the midst of mischief. “Mrs. Weatherby’s salon.”
“No. Out of the question.” She shook her head, unwilling to even entertain such a notion.
“Now, now. I would introduce you to Mrs. Weatherby. And we would spread the story of your background. How you left Italy when your husband died—”
“My husband!”
“Of course. First of all, you do not want to advertise you are an innocent country miss, for there is no greater lure to the rakes of the world than purity. Secondly, you have a child.” He spun so she could see the baby’s face. “Therefore, you are a widow.”
“Thaddeus…”
“And I believe you must have a dramatic title. Contessa, perhaps.”
“You have gone mad. Hand me the child, lest your lunacy be catching.”
He stepped nimbly away from her outstretched arms. “With a title, you can be haughty. Inscrutable. Demanding of respect. Do you not see? People will pay you handsomely to perform at their musicales and theatrical productions. Even if your voice was awful—which it is not—they would pay you for the prestige of having the enigmatic contessa perform at their functions.”
She crossed her arms again and tapped her foot. “I think you believe your own rantings.”
“Oh, such cruelty. Hard-hearted lady!” His eyes widened. “How perfect. That is what we shall name you. La Contessa della Pietra.”
“And what does that mean?” She stalked over to him and scooped the child off his shoulder. “Italian madwoman?”
“The countess of stone.” He rubbed both his hands together. “It is too perfect. And today is Thursday, so there is no time to waste.”
Miranda carefully sat down on the sofa so as not to wake the baby. “I cannot possibly do such a thing.”
“Oh, so you would rather pander hand and foot to some ancient hag who would treat you worse than she treats her oldest pair of slippers?” He propped his hands on his hips, his voice staccato and sharp. “Or perhaps you prefer the workhouse. The laundry? The backbreaking work of a seamstress? How will you care for James under those circumstances?”
She dropped her eyes. “I do not know.”
“This is a good idea, Miranda.” He knelt down in front of her and lifted her chin with his finger so she had to look at him. “The stage was my career for thirty years. I know what I am doing.”
She bit her lip. “I cannot afford to make any mistakes. I had hoped that the duke would accept James and perhaps allow me to stay on as nursemaid. But now…now I am on my own.”
“My dear child, you are not alone.” He gave her the charming smile that had made princes and peasants alike rise to their feet in applause. “You have me.”
Chapter 3
Mrs. Weatherby’s Thursday night salon was the only thing that kept Wylde from going utterly mad while he was trapped in London. Of all the entertainments to be found in Town, he considered Mrs. Weatherby’s to be the most amusing of the respectable ones.
He came forward to greet the portly lady herself, where she sat in her favorite chair, a throne-like construction of gilt and purple pillows. Elizabeth Weatherby had begun as a mistress and married her lover just in time for him to make her a wealthy widow. She amused herself by shocking society and spending flagrant amounts of money on the arts. Her Thursday night salons were actually an opportunity to showcase painters, sculptors, poets, musicians and the like who were seeking patronage.
These days he felt like the salon was the only place he could truly call home.
“Good evening, Mrs. Weatherby.” Wylde made his leg and grinned at her. “Once more you outshine every lady in the room.”
“Rogue!” She laughed and tapped his arm with her fan. “You flatter me, Your Grace. Do sit down.”
“I speak only the truth.” He took the chair beside her and surveyed the room. “I do not see young Willingham. Did he succeed in finding a patron?”
“He did.” She grinned with none of the artifice he’d seen practiced by young misses. “Lord Hemphill has offered.”
“Willingham was a fine painter. I expect we will be seeing many a portrait from him—hopefully not all of Lord Hemphill.”
She gave an unrestrained burst of laughter. “Wicked man.”
“Truthful,” he corrected.
“And you, Your Grace?” She cocked her head to the side, much like a curious bird. “Do you see no one you would care to sponsor? I know how you love the creative mind.”
“Not at this time.”
“I don’t suppose you would care to play for us this evening? I fear the keys of the pianoforte grow stiff from disuse.”
Curse him for in
dulging himself that first night and revealing his penchant for the pianoforte. With effort, he kept the charming smile in place. “I prefer to leave the stage to those seeking patronage.”
“As you wish. Please excuse me while I introduce our first performer.” She cast him a sly smile. “I look forward to your opinion of her talent.”
Wylde nodded, and a servant rang a small gong. His hostess moved to the front of the room and held up her hands for quiet. Conversations died as all attention focused on Mrs. Weatherby.
“My dear guests, I would like to announce our first musical performance of the evening—the Contessa della Pietra.” She looked around the crowd. “The contessa is newly arrived to London and is delighted to favor us with her lovely voice this evening.”
The crowd parted and a woman came forward.
Wylde sat straight up in his chair, jerked to attention as if by invisible strings.
The contessa looked to be quite young, barely out of the schoolroom, yet she possessed a sensuality about her that grabbed a man’s attention and would not let go. Her dress was mulberry tulle, lavishly embroidered and cut low to showcase the globes of her perfect breasts. Her hair was a color between dark brown and black, swept up in elegant disarray that made her appear to have just left some man’s bed. Her skin glowed like pearls, her face a combination of sloping cheekbones, darkly lashed eyes, and plump, luscious lips above a piquant chin.
She was an exotic plum in a simple apple orchard.
Polite applause accompanied her as she seated herself at the pianoforte. “Thank you for your kind welcome,” she said, her lips parting in a slow smile that seemed an intimate secret shared with all of them. “It is good to be back in England among my countrymen.”
Then she began to play.
Her husky contralto wrapped around the verses of the sweet country song, adding nuances of flirtation to the simple lyrics. Just watching her mouth form the words had Wylde’s body reacting, tensing, drawn to her as if she were Salome beckoning him to the boudoir.
She closed her eyes as she sang, caressing the notes with her voice and the keys with her fingers. The song was her lover, and she was seducing it into sin.
To Ruin the Duke Page 3