No Man's Mistress

by Mary Balogh

  She had forgiven her mother long ago.

  “He did not deceive me, Mama,” she said. “But how did you know about Pinewood?”

  “Mr. Kirby told us,” her mother said.

  Just the sound of his name made Viola's stomach lurch.

  “Do you remember him?” her mother asked. “But of course you must. He comes to the inn to take coffee quite frequently, does he not, Claire? He is still very amiable. I have gone down once or twice to converse with him. He commiserated with us over your loss. Naturally, we were mystified. That was when he told us about the Duke of Tresham's brother winning the property from the earl and going down to Somersetshire to claim it. What is the brother's name? I cannot recall.”

  “Lord Ferdinand Dudley,” Viola said.

  Daniel Kirby had heard, then. But of course he would have heard. He made it his business to know everything. This explained why he suddenly discovered a new debt. He knew she would be returning to London. He knew he could exercise power over her again.

  “What is Lord Ferdinand like, Viola?” Claire asked.

  Handsome. Full of laughter. Gregarious, charming, impossibly attractive. Daring and dashing Kind. Honorable. Innocent—strangely innocent.

  “I did not know him long enough to form any lasting impression,” she said.

  Maria came back then, carrying a tray, which she set down on a table close to the love seat.

  “Well,” their mother said as she poured the tea, “you are home now, Viola. That part of your life is in the past and best forgotten. Perhaps Mr. Kirby will help you again. He knows a great many influential people. And of course your former employers may be willing to give you a good recommendation even though you left them rather abruptly.”

  Viola shook her head when Maria offered the plate of cakes. She felt quite nauseated. For that, of course, was just what was going to happen. Daniel Kirby would come here soon and the two of them would talk and come to some arrangement for the resumption of her career. They would set about spinning a suitable yarn for her family so they would never know the truth.

  Perhaps, Viola thought as she sipped her tea and listened to Maria's prattle about the latest news from Ben, she should tell them herself—now, before her life became a web of lies and deceit again.

  But she simply could not do it. All their lives would be ruined. Uncle Wesley had been enormously kind to them over the years. He had never remarried after his young wife died giving birth to their stillborn child only one year into their marriage. His sister and her family had become his own. He had supported them cheerfully and without complaint. Viola could not see him destroyed. And there were Claire and Maria and Ben, who must be allowed a future of pleasant prospects. Her mother's health was not strong. She would not be able to support the burden.

  No, she could not do it.

  20

  It was Ferdinand's second day of riding from inn to inn on a search that he fully expected to be futile. He would waste a week or so in this way until finally he would either see her—in the park or at the theater—or hear of her from his acquaintances. Lilian Talbot was back, the story would go, as beautiful, as alluring, as expensive as ever. Lord So-and-so had been the fortunate one to secure her services first, Lord Such-and-such second…

  If he was wise, Ferdinand kept telling himself, he would return to Selby and get him to tear up the papers transferring ownership of Pinewood, and he would go back there himself—and stay there for the rest of his life.

  He never had been renowned for his wisdom.

  He had arrived at the White Horse Inn at just the wrong time, he thought as he rode into the cobbled yard. A stagecoach was preparing for departure. There were people, horses, and baggage everywhere, and a great deal of noise and commotion. But one stablehand recognized him as a gentleman and hurried toward him to ask if he could take his horse.

  “Perhaps,” Ferdinand said, leaning down from his saddle. “But I am not sure I have the right place. I am looking for an innkeeper by the name of Thornhill.”

  “He is over there, sir,” the lad said, pointing to the densest throng of people close to the coach. “He is busy, but I'll call him if you like.”

  “No.” Ferdinand dismounted and handed the boy a coin. “I'll go inside and wait.”

  The innkeeper was large in both height and girth. He was exchanging pleasantries with the stagecoach driver. His name was Thornhill. Could the search possibly end this easily? Ferdinand wondered.

  He ducked through the doorway and found himself in a dark, beamed porch. A slender, pretty young girl with a tray of used dishes in her hands curtsied to him and would have proceeded on her way if he had not spoken.

  “I am looking for Miss Viola Thornhill,” he said.

  She looked far more directly at him then. “Viola?” she said. “She is in the coffee room, sir. Shall I call her?”

  “No,” he said. He was feeling almost dizzy. She was here? “Which room is that?”

  She pointed and stood to watch him as he proceeded toward it.

  There must still be some time left before the stagecoach was due to depart, he thought as he stood in the doorway. It was still half full. But he saw Viola immediately, seated at the far side of the room, facing toward him. Opposite her sat a man, to whom she was talking.

  Ferdinand stood watching them, torn between feelings of relief, anger, and uncertainty. He never had decided how he would proceed if he found her. He could stride toward that table now, if he chose, place the papers beside her saucer, make his bow, and leave without saying a word. He could then get on with his life, his conscience appeased.

  But two things happened before he could make up his mind to do it.

  The man turned his head sideways to look out through the window. Ferdinand could not see him full-face, but he could see enough to realize that he knew him. Not personally, but he supposed there were not many men of his class who would not recognize Daniel Kirby. He was a gentleman, though not a member of the ton. He hung about places like Tattersall's and Jackson's and various racetracks—places frequented primarily by men. A small, round-faced, jovial fellow, he was nevertheless well known for the weasel he was. He was a moneylender, a blackmailer, and other unsavory things. Wherever there was money to be made by shady means, Daniel Kirby was there.

  And Viola Thornhill was in conversation with him.

  The other thing that happened was that she looked beyond the shoulder of her companion and her gaze locked with Ferdinand's for a moment. But although she stopped talking for that moment, her expression did not change. There was no look of surprise, anger, embarrassment—or anything else. Then she returned her attention to Kirby and continued with what she was saying as if nothing had happened.

  She did not want Kirby to know he was there, Ferdinand concluded. Only seconds must have passed, he realized, when he turned to find the young maid still standing where she was, holding her tray.

  “Does she live here?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the girl said.

  “And her mother too?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is her name?”

  “My mother's?” She frowned.

  “Your mother's?” He looked more intently at her. “Is Miss Thornhill your sister?”

  “My half-sister, sir,” she said. “I am Claire Wilding.”

  He had not even known that she had a sister. The girl was small and slender and blond. He made an impulsive decision.

  “Will you ask Mrs. Wilding if she will receive me?” he asked. He drew out one of his visiting cards from his coat pocket.

  She looked at it as he set it on the tray.

  “Yes, my lord.” She curtsied and blushed. “I'll ask her.”

  She spoke with a refined accent, he noticed, just as Viola did. Clearly she could also read.

  Life could get no bleaker, Viola thought as Daniel Kirby took his leave. When her uncle had come upstairs earlier to announce his arrival, he had been smiling. Her mother had smiled too and insis
ted on coming down to the coffee room with Viola to pay her respects to him.

  The conversation had turned to business once the two of them had been alone together, of course. The terms were the same as they had been before. Viola had not given in without protest, but she had known it was hopeless. When she had mentioned the receipt Mr. Kirby had signed and given to her father, he had regarded her kindly but blankly.

  “Now, what receipt would that be?” he had asked her. “I recollect no such thing.”

  “No, of course. You would not,” she had replied coldly.

  He was to find her rooms. He was to put about the word that she was back in town. He was to engage clients for her. He granted her a week's holiday to spend with her family while he made all the arrangements.

  “After all,” he had said, “your family might find it strange if I were to find you a governess's post too soon. And we would not wish to upset your family, would we?”

  But if the interview with Daniel Kirby was not trouble enough for one morning, there was the other ghastly thing that had happened while she was sitting talking to him. She had looked up, conscious that someone was standing in the doorway, and for a moment had completely lost the trend of what she was saying.

  In the split second before she had pulled herself together, all she had thought of was that he had found her, that he had come for her, that she could rush into his arms, and he would hold her there safe forever. Then she had pulled herself together and looked away. When she had glanced up again a few seconds later, he had gone.

  She had felt enormous relief.

  She had also hit the depths of despair.

  She got up from the empty table. She had promised to help out in the office with some of the paperwork Claire so abhorred. But first, she thought, she must go to her room to spend some time alone.

  How had he found her?

  Why had he come?

  Why had he gone away again without a word?

  Would he come back?

  Hannah was in her room, hanging up her newly laundered and ironed traveling dress.

  “Your mother asked that you go to her as soon as that man left,” she said.

  Viola sighed. “Did she say what she wanted, Hannah?”

  “No,” her maid said, though Viola had the feeling that she knew very well.

  She sighed again. Her mother probably wanted to share her delight at Mr. Kirby's promise to help her daughter find employment, Viola thought as she opened the sitting room door and stepped inside.

  Lord Ferdinand Dudley was sitting by the fireplace.

  “See who has come to call upon me this morning, Viola,” her mother said, getting to her feet and hurrying closer. “He needs no introduction to you, of course.”

  He rose and bowed as her mother turned to smile warmly at him.

  “Miss Thornhill,” he said.

  “Lord Ferdinand has just traveled up from Somersetshire,” her mother explained, “and has come to pay his respects to me. Is that not a kind courtesy, Viola? He has been telling Maria and me how highly thought of you are at Pinewood.”

  Viola looked at him with silent reproach. “It was kind of you to call, my lord,” she said. How did you find me? Why did you find me?

  “Do sit down again,” her mother told their guest as she drew Viola to sit beside her on the love seat. “I have been explaining, Viola, why you could not join us immediately.” She looked back at their visitor. “My father was a gentleman, you see, but he lost his fortune in some unwise investments, and so my brother had to forge his own way in the world, as did I. I was a governess too. Viola's father was a gentleman. So was my late husband.”

  Her mother was on the defensive, Viola thought.

  “No one who saw Miss Thornhill manage a country fête could possibly doubt that she is a lady, ma'am,” Lord Ferdinand said, his eyes smiling into Viola's.

  He proceeded to tell her mother and Maria about the May Day celebrations at Trellick. He soon had both of them laughing and exclaiming in delight. The ability to charm almost any audience was one of his personal gifts, of course. It had annoyed her at Pinewood. It annoyed her now.

  “We are glad to have Viola home with us again,” her mother said at last. “Of course, she will probably be teaching again soon. Mr. Kirby has promised to help her find a respectable position, as he did once before.”

  Viola watched Lord Ferdinand, but he gave no sign of knowing the name.

  “I came to town just in time, then, ma'am,” he said. “I might have missed Miss Thornhill if I had postponed my visit to a later date.”

  “Yes, indeed,” her mother agreed.

  “I wonder if I might beg the favor of a private word with your daughter, ma'am?” he asked.

  Viola shook her head imperceptibly, but no one was looking at her. Her mother got to her feet without any hesitation.

  “Of course, my lord,” she said, sounding inordinately pleased. “Come along, Maria. We will see what help we can offer downstairs.”

  Mama thought he had come courting, Viola thought as her mother, her back to their visitor, gave her a significant look. Then she left, taking Maria with her.

  The clock ticked with unnatural loudness on the mantel.

  Viola spread her hands in her lap and looked down at them.

  “How did you find me?” she asked.

  “You said your uncle was an innkeeper,” he said.

  Had she told him that?

  “I started searching yesterday morning,” he said. “I began with the coaching inns and the slim hope that your uncle was still in business and bore the name of Thornhill.”

  She looked up at him. “Why?”

  He had got to his feet when her mother rose. He stood now in front of the fireplace, his hands at his back. He looked large and powerful. She felt at a distinct disadvantage. She saw him draw a deep breath and release it slowly.

  “Mainly for this reason, I suppose,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and bringing out a sheaf of papers.

  “How many times do I have to say no before you will believe me?” she asked.

  “Pinewood is yours,” he said. “I have had the title legally transferred to you. It is yours whether you want it or not, Viola.”

  He held out the papers, but she made no move to take them. It was too late. Daniel Kirby had heard about his winning Pinewood and had concluded that if her father had not changed his will, he had probably not kept that receipt either. He had guessed that he had her in his power again. Pinewood would not be able to help her now. He would make sure that the rents were not quite enough to cover payment on the debts.

  Lord Ferdinand moved toward the table and set the papers down beside Maria's books.

  “It is yours,” he said again.

  “Very well,” she said, her eyes on her hands again. “Your task has been successfully accomplished. Good day to you, my lord.”

  “Viola,” he said softly, and she heard him sigh with exasperation.

  The next moment, she saw his riding boots almost toe-to-toe with her slippers, and then he came down on his haunches and captured both her hands in his own. She had little choice but to look into his eyes, on a level with her own.

  “Do you hate me so much?” he asked her.

  The question almost broke her heart. Perhaps she had not realized until this precise moment just how much she loved him. Not just how much she was in love with him, but how much she loved him.

  “Do you find it so hard to believe,” she asked in return, “that I could wish to be my own person rather than your mistress?”

  “I offered you Pinewood,” he said. “You told me it meant so much to you only because the late Earl of Bamber gave it to you. Did you love him so much more than me, then? He must have been old enough to be your father.”

  His words might have been funny under other circumstances.

  “Fool!” she said, but she spoke gently. “Ferdinand, he was my father. Do you think I would have accepted a gift like that from a lover?”
/>
  His hands tightened about her own and he stared at her in astonishment. “Bamber was your father?”

  She nodded. “I had not seen him since my mother married Clarence Wilding. He had been in poor health for years. He did not come to London often. He came then to consult a physician, but it was hopeless. He knew he was dying. I will forever be thankful that I saw him and recognized him in Hyde Park and called out to him before I could stop myself. He explained why I had not heard from him during all those years. And he tried to atone, to do for me what he would have done if we had not been estranged by my mother's marriage. It was too late for him to arrange a decent marriage for me—I had been working for four years. But he gave me Pinewood and the chance of a new life. It was a precious gift, Ferdinand, because it came from my father. It was a gift of pure love.”

  He bent his head and closed his eyes. “This explains why you will not believe that he neglected to change his will,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Ferdinand lifted her hands one at a time to his lips. “Forgive me,” he said. “I behaved like a prize ass when I came to Pinewood. I should have gone away immediately. You would still be happy there now.”

  “No.” She gazed earnestly at him. “You behaved quite reasonably under the circumstances. You might have thrown me out that very first day.”

  “Go home,” he urged her. “Go back there. Not because I want you to but because your father did. And because that is where you belong.”

  “Perhaps I will,” she said.

  “No, dash it.” He got to his feet and drew her to hers. “I can tell by the look on your face that you are humoring me. You have no intention of going there, have you? Because it comes from me. It brings me back to my original question. Do you hate me so much?”

  “I don't hate you.” She closed her eyes.

  It was a mistake. He stepped closer, wrapped his arms about her, and set his mouth, open, over hers. She was powerless to end the embrace, even though he did not hold her imprisoned. She twined her arms about his neck and allowed all the defenses she had erected about herself in the past few days to crumble away. She kissed him back with all the yearning, all the passion, all the love in her heart.