“I need that!” Her voice disintegrated into a moan. “I only did it for the laudanum….”
Her hands were cut now from the shards of glass, the blood streaking her palms. Catherine knelt beside her, coaxing her to her feet, putting an arm about her unresisting body.
“Come to bed now, Maggie,” she said gently. “Everything will be all right….”
Sir Alfred did not move. He watched his daughter help his wife toward the stairs, still talking softly to her as though she were a child.
He thought about Algernon Withers.
He thought about the pistol in the drawer of his desk.
He thought about his shocking inability to take matters into his own hands and deal with Withers as he deserved. Someone else would have to do that. Someone strong, not a broken reed such as he had become.
“Tench!”
The door to the servants’ quarters opened so quickly that Sir Alfred realized the entire house must have been listening to the confrontation he had just had with his wife. No matter. He suspected that the whole of London had heard about his errant wife by now. They said that the husband was always the last to know.
“Fetch me brandy,” he said. “Then leave me alone. I do not wish to be disturbed.”
BEN HAWKSMOOR STROLLED UP the steps to Lady Paris de Moine’s front door and threw a greeting to the press hacks who were chewing their pencils and waiting patiently on the pavement below. They brightened when they saw him and told him sympathetically that Lord Askew had arrived before him but had been turned away. They begged for a piece of news, gossip or anything that might make the presses later that day. Ben duly obliged. Since publicity was his lifeblood he was not going to bite the hand that currently fed him.
Paris’s messenger had arrived at eight o’clock that morning when Ben had had no more than three hours sleep. The messenger had stated that the matter was important, but then when Paris wanted something it was always urgent. She had not changed in the ten years since Ben had first known her. Her name had been Patience then and she had hated it. Ben had suggested she choose something she preferred. He promised to keep quiet about Patience. She had paid him a lot of money to do so.
If it came to that, Ben thought, he had been plain Captain Hawksmoor when they had first met, with little to be proud of either. At that stage no one had imagined that he would inherit any title other than that of spawn of the devil.
Ben had had a bad night. He had not dreamed of Catherine, although she was the first thing that he thought of when he awoke alone in the bed that they had so briefly shared. In the darkness he had been plagued by nightmares of his time in the Peninsula and the horrific retreat to Corunna in particular. In his dreams, the French were cutting down the laggards while Ben watched, and one of the dead men had been Ned Clarencieux, holding out a hand and begging Ben to save him…. Ben had shuddered awake, bathed in sweat, to find the cold, foggy light of morning creeping around the curtains and the bed equally as cold and desolate beside him. Once again he had found himself wanting Catherine with a longing that baffled and disturbed him.
“Lord Hawksmoor!” One of the reporters had elbowed his way to the front of the crowd and his shout stirred Ben from his reverie. “I heard that Lady Paris is minded to wed the Duke of Beaufoy. What do you think of that, my lord?”
Ben paused with his hand on the door knocker. Truth was he did not care who Paris inveigled into marriage. If she chose to wed one of the royal princes, he would do no more than wish her luck. Paris was scarcely exclusive in her affections and no one expected her to be. But the papers all thought he was her lover, so he had to appear vaguely interested.
He laughed. “Then I would admire her exceedingly,” he said, “for getting past Beaufoy’s guardians. Why, the lad is scarce out of the nursery!”
There were raucous guffaws at this from the crowd, for they knew that the twenty-year-old duke had been languishing after Lady Paris for weeks like the lovesick youth he was, while his formidable guardians watched from the sidelines to make sure he did not commit the cardinal folly of eloping with a lightskirt. Ben hoped for Beaufoy’s sake that Paris failed to persuade him. She would ruin him within three months.
Edna opened the door to his knock, her mouth turned down at the corners. Like her mistress, Edna had also been a camp follower, but had recognized her own limitations and Paris’s potential, and had turned her undoubted skills to the organization of Paris’s career.
“Madam’s sick,” she said bluntly, as Ben shed his coat and gloves. “It’s bad. She’s asking for you.”
She made it sound as though Paris was at death’s door, but Ben found this highly unlikely. After all, he had seen Paris only a few nights before and she had been in fine fig, feeding grapes to the regent.
“Too much to drink, was it?” he inquired, following Edna up the stairs. “I did warn her.”
The house was stiflingly hot and when Edna threw open the door to Paris’s bedroom, Ben could barely see or breathe. The whole room was plunged into darkness and was thick with the overpowering smell of Paris’s latest perfume. Ben tried not to cough.
“Where the devil are you, Paris?”
“Ben, darling?” Paris’s voice was plaintive. “Over here. I am in bed.”
He caught sight of a pale arm waving imperiously at him, and then it disappeared back under the bedclothes rather swiftly.
“Can you not open the curtains a little?” he asked Edna, but she shook her head.
“Madam does not wish it.”
Ben reflected that if Paris invited all her lovers to join her in this less than welcoming fashion, it was astounding that she was a successful cyprian at all. He trod gingerly through the mountainous piles of discarded clothes and by the time he finally reached the bedside, his eyes were starting to adjust to the gloom. Even so, Paris was nowhere to be seen.
“Paris,” he began, “for pity’s sake—”
He stopped as Lady Paris de Moine poked her head from beneath the covers. Her normally immaculate hair was tumbled about a face that was almost unrecognizable. Her eyes were puffy and her skin was blotched with spots of fiery red. Ben felt a completely unchivalrous urge to laugh.
“Dear me,” he said mildly. “So it is true. You are sick.”
“I have the chicken pox,” Paris said grumpily.
“I see.” Ben sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her thoughtfully. He had never seen her looking anything less than perfect since the day he had pulled her out of a waterlogged trench in Portugal. He remembered the time with some affection. Matters had been much simpler then.
“Don’t stare,” Paris said crossly. “I know I look a fright.”
“You do.” Ben started to smile. “Who would have thought you could look as bad as this?”
Paris slapped his arm. “Stop it! I only allowed you to see me because…” Her voice trailed away.
“Because you do not need to impress me,” Ben said, without resentment. “And, I suspect, because you need my help.”
Paris looked at him. He could see the fear in her blue eyes now. She remembered their pact as well as he did. If they could be of use to one another, then that was all well and good. If one of them became a liability, then it was each for themselves.
“I have to go away,” Paris said urgently. “No one can know what has happened to me.”
“Yes.” Ben understood the problem. While it was essential to see and be seen in society, Paris would be a laughingstock if it became known that she had succumbed to a childish ailment such as chicken pox. She lived so precariously in the fashionable world. One slip and everything would be gone, and her fame and future with it. Paris had even less in the way of family or fortune to fall back on than he did. At least he had his title and a tumbledown house, even if he had no money to support it.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
The fear in Paris’s eyes intensified. Her fingers dug into his sleeve. “Firstly you must promise not to tell anyone what has befall
en me, no matter what happens.”
Ben shrugged. “Agreed.”
“You must help me to concoct a story that will satisfy people,” Paris continued, “and you must not take up with any other woman whilst I am on my sickbed. I could not bear to be supplanted.”
“I see,” Ben said.
“I shall be better within the fortnight,” Paris said, “and then I am not certain I shall forgive you if you do not help me now.”
The threat was implicit. If he let her down, she would simply cut him adrift. She would cast him out to make or lose his fortune on his own. Her eyes were as cold as ice.
Ben laughed. “You will cut me dead anyway if you land a proposal from Beaufoy, Paris darling. Do you think I do not know that?”
Paris’s eyelids flickered down. “That would be different. His family may pay me off and then there will be rich pickings for you, Ben. That was what we agreed. And even if I do catch Beaufoy in parson’s mousetrap, I will still pay you. I always honor my promises.”
She did. It was one of the things that made it hard to dislike Lady Paris de Moine. She had her own sense of fair play.
“But,” Paris continued, her tone hardening, “I cannot promise that I will feel so generously inclined if you break faith with me. I will cut you loose.”
Ben stood up. Although they had never been lovers, he sometimes thought that he and Paris knew each other too well. When they had thrown their lot in together, they had given too much away. He knew that she was afraid of losing her looks and ending in the poorhouse, condemned as a lonely old whore who had never had the sense to secure her future. And he had been born into abject poverty and had inherited nothing but debt. Paris knew the thing that he most feared was finishing back in the gutter where he had started. She would not hesitate to use that knowledge to her advantage.
He walked across to the window and drew back the drapes slightly.
“There are a dozen newspaper hacks on your doorstep,” he said softly, “and any one of them would sell his mother for the story I could tell them now. So do not seek to threaten me, Paris.” He turned back toward her. “We should both accept that we can inflict equal damage on the other and seek instead to find a compromise.”
Paris struggled to sit upright. Her nightgown slipped from one rounded shoulder. The sight of her in déshabillé did not arouse Ben and it never had. He knew she would not attempt to seduce him to her point of view.
“Normally I would agree with you, Ben darling,” Paris said. She reached across to her bedside cabinet and slid the drawer open. Ben heard the wood scrape and the rustle of parchment. “Normally I would trust you,” she repeated, “but I feel very…anxious…at present.” She looked up. “So I wish to tell you that if you betray me, I will tell the whole town that you have debauched a debutante and then both you and your little light of love will be ruined.”
Ben was so shocked that he actually jumped to hear the words. Across the room, Edna had paused in her tidying of Paris’s clothes and stood still, a silk petticoat dangling from her hand. Her expression was a mixture of sympathy and speculation. Ben looked in blank horror from the maid to the mistress and saw that Paris’s eyes gleamed with a triumphant light.
“I know all about it,” she said. “I know about you and Catherine Fenton.”
Ben caught his breath sharply. For a brief moment, panic swamped him, all the more shocking for being utterly unexpected. Paris knew that he had seduced Catherine. Catherine’s reputation was in the hands of the most dangerous harlot in London. He felt sick to think of it, stunned and confused to find he cared.
He let the curtain drop into place and crossed to the bed. Paris was sitting bolt upright, the letter clasped tightly in her hand. He reached out to snatch it from her but she whisked it out of sight beneath the covers.
“It is anonymous,” she said defiantly.
Ben stared down at her. “I do not believe you, Paris. Information like that is never free. Your informant must have asked for a reward in return—or a favor, at the least.”
Paris held his gaze. “I tell you, it is unsigned. No name, no fee.”
Ben’s lips thinned. “Show me.”
“No!”
Ben shrugged. “It is nonsense.”
Paris shook her head. “I think not. I saw it in your face when you first heard the charge, Ben darling. You are as guilty as sin.”
As guilty as sin. Catherine was in serious trouble now and it was indeed his fault. All the thoughts that Ben had been repressing since the previous night surfaced with sudden and terrifying clarity. What would Algernon Withers say when he heard the tale? What would he do to Catherine? Ben felt the cold sweat trickle between his shoulder blades even to think about it.
He drove his hands into his pockets and turned away so that Paris could not see his expression. The only thing he could do now was to try to trick Paris, bluff his way out of it. He was a skilled gambler. He could surely carry it off. If only Catherine’s reputation, her very future, did not depend upon it….
“I am not certain that I understand what you are trying to blackmail me with,” he said casually. “So it is true. The silly little chit threw herself at me so I took her.” The words seemed to stick in his throat but he made them as convincing as he could. Paris was watching him like a snake watches a mouse.
“If you tell everyone, it will do no more than damage her reputation,” Ben continued. His mind was full of pictures of Catherine; Catherine defiant, courageous, beautiful; Catherine tumbled in his bed with her hair spread about her, her expression innocent and wondering, her touch…He cleared his throat. “You cannot hurt me. It is always the woman who suffers.”
Paris’s expression was stony. “Her father will lynch you when he finds out. And she is betrothed to Algernon Withers. He will put a bullet through you.”
The name sent another slither of revulsion down Ben’s back. It was all too possible that Withers would call him out but he found he was more concerned about what the man did to Catherine. The thought of Withers wreaking a revenge on her appalled him. Worse, it frightened him. He felt a terrible compulsion to protect her, he who had seduced her without compunction and then thought he could just walk away.
He shook his head abruptly to stop this worrying trend of thought. From the start, he had wanted Catherine. It was impossible to deny. Now he realized in some complicated way that his feelings ran deeper than that. He had been slow to recognize it, but he needed her. He wanted her to belong to him and to none other, to take her away from Withers.
But he could not think of that now, or Paris would divine his true feelings and use the knowledge to blackmail him. He turned back toward her and kept his expression studiously blank.
“You mistake,” he said lightly. “Neither Fenton nor Withers will call me out. They will want to hush the matter up rather than publish the girl’s ruin all over town. Your threats are worth nothing, Paris.”
Paris was looking at him with a curious mixture of admiration and aversion.
“You are a coldhearted bastard, Benjamin Hawksmoor,” she said.
Ben smiled. “So I am told.” He sensed that Paris was weakening and felt a huge relief.
“I was afraid,” Paris said lightly, “that you might be about to do something foolish, such as make the chit an offer.”
Ben raised his brows. “Why on earth would you think that? You know that I detest the very idea of marriage.”
Paris shrugged. She looked evasive. “So you do.”
“So,” Ben said, “shall we forget your misplaced attempts to blackmail me, Paris, and continue to search for some sort of compromise?”
He saw her smile. “A good solution, Ben darling. I should hate—positively detest—to fall out with you.”
Ben smiled a little grimly. “Of course. Now, as you said, you must go away. It is impossible for you to stay here for two weeks out of the public eye. People will talk and the less you tell them, the more they will make it up. It will not serve.”
“But someone will recognize me wherever I go,” Paris objected. “They will see that I am spotty and then they will tell the papers what has happened.”
“Not if you leave in secret and travel somewhere no one will find you.”
Paris looked horrified. “Are you speaking of the country? That is impossible! I cannot go to the country. I would rather die.”
“Do not be so stupid, Paris,” Ben said bluntly. “If you stay in London all you will achieve is social death. It would be rather more painful and long-lasting for you than the other sort.”
Paris’s lower lip quivered. She looked like a tragic if blotchy heroine. “You are so cruel—”
“I am trying to help you.”
“By packing me off to the country?”
“It is the only way. My cousin Gideon has a place in Surrey, just beyond Richmond. He never goes there. You and Edna will travel there and stay until you are better.”
“Surrey?” Ben thought Paris could not have looked more horrified if he had suggested she sail for the Americas. “But that is miles away! We will never get there in this fog!”
“Yes you will. It is not far and you will travel tonight.”
Paris gave a wail. “But Surrey is the back of beyond!”
“All the less reason for people to guess where you are. The Lady Paris de Moine that the world knows would never consider staying in a farmhouse in the middle of the country. Meanwhile we shall concoct a story to cover your absence. A sick mother, perhaps—”
“I cannot possibly have a mother! It does not suit my image at all. Mothers are so out of fashion!”
Ben shrugged irritably. “Then a sick retainer, or a sick dog, if you prefer. Once you have left London we will put the story about that you are gone on a mission of mercy and will be absent for a week or two. When you return you will be even more of a mystery.”
There was a misty look in Paris’s eyes as she contemplated this possibility. “I will own that it would be preferable to staying here and being the butt of spiteful gossip.” She looked at Edna. “But how are we to manage, just the two of us?”
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