A Bride Unveiled

by Jillian Hunter

  “I didn’t realize that you and Sir Godfrey moved in the same society,” he said.

  Pierce looked past him. “I wouldn’t call us close friends. But we’ve gone out for the occasional pint after practice. I can’t see for the life of me why any woman as—” He veered into Kit, and Kit shoved him aside without a second thought. “Sorry. I know we are not supposed to malign our fellow students.”

  “You gossip like a girl.”

  “I don’t fight like one,” Pierce said, hanging back a moment.

  Kit didn’t respond. Fine swordsmanship tended to engender respect among students, not counting the infrequent professional jealousy that ended in a deadly duel.

  For the most part, men who had studied diligently to earn their diplomas had enough sense not to challenge an equal.

  But not always.

  He recognized in relief the familiar landmarks that led to his dwelling house. The hackney driver who occupied the spot two doors down nodded as he passed. The pawnbroker’s shop was closed, but the corner tavern had drawn the usual crowd.

  He counted five vehicles lined up in the street. He could smell burned cheese and uncorked champagne as he pounded up the steep stairs to his rooms. Laughter and light. His lodging house might not be as elegant as a Park Lane mansion, but it wasn’t a basement in Seven Dials, either. He opened the door onto the crowded parlor.

  He felt Pierce at his back, peering into the smoky warmth of the room. “And I thought you led a monk’s life.”

  Kit shook his head. “This is the usual madhouse after a good show. Champagne, criticizing one another’s performance, and—”

  “Women,” Pierce said, standing in the door before he followed Kit inside the parlor. “May I come in?” he asked after a brief hesitation.

  Kit turned away as a friendly voice called, “Maestro!” and several glasses of port rose in salute. Seven other guests stood celebrating around the hearth, and the remaining assembly had not even arrived.

  “Clean your sword before you leave,” he told Pierce. “And no fencing on the stairs. It gives the landlady fits.”

  “Aren’t you going to toast at least once?”

  “I toasted enough for one night. I’m going to bed.” He strode from the parlor toward his bedroom without any fanfare, and those he knew best knew better than to beg him to stay.

  Sometimes he couldn’t stand the disorder and the noise.

  But it would be worse to be alone. At least no one ever came barging into his bedroom without knocking, excluding the overamorous actress, or wanton lady who took his lack of interest in a casual affair as a challenge.

  Kit was highly particular where he sheathed his sword.

  He washed, undressed, and fell across his bed.

  He could hear shuffling and snoring, a blade tapping from the adjoining room until right before dawn, when a deep silence descended. In a half hour the first person on his feet would put on the kettle for tea. It wasn’t long after joining the academy that a new pupil learned the master lived anything but an adventurous life.

  As if he kept a mistress in every room, he thought absently, and the ache in his shoulder spread through his body, a body accustomed to being denied its needs.

  But as daylight broke Kit didn’t feel like denying himself; it shocked him to realize that he could fall victim to desire. He mocked other men who could not control their sexuality. He wasn’t as strong as he believed.

  He simply had not encountered the woman he couldn’t resist. He closed his eyes and saw Violet’s passion-flushed face.

  He felt her lips open beneath his, and her breasts, soft and heavy, molded to his chest.

  A tremor of want raked his spine and burrowed into the marrow of his bones. Did she toss in the dark, yearning to be touched and tasted and caressed in every erotic way he could invent?

  Why should she marry an inept pupil when she could have the master instead?

  He drifted back off to sleep. Would Violet dream about him, too?

  A bellow from the staircase jolted him out of bed.

  He jumped up, ran across the room, and opened the door. “What the bloody hell?”

  His landlady stood before him, shaking with rage. “I run a reputable lodging house! If you can’t stop those young bucks from creating mayhem in the middle of the night, then I’m tossing the lot of you—”

  She blinked, looking down the length of him in awestruck silence.

  Kit frowned. “Look, Mrs. Burrows, I’m sorry that the little bastards have disturbed you. It won’t happen again.”

  She smiled. She tittered. He thought she might be tipsy. Then she looked down again. “It’s no trouble, sir. Sorry I barged in on your repose. I know you worked hard tonight. Very hard, indeed.”

  And it was only when her gaze dropped for a third time that he realized what had made her go all noddy in the noggin.

  He wasn’t wearing a nightshirt. He wasn’t wearing anything except the sword with which nature had endowed him. So much for his honor.

  The prostitute stroked her knuckles idly down her customer’s shoulder. Annoyed, he shrugged off her touch and rolled onto his back. “Did I displease you?” she asked in a detached voice.

  He glanced at her with an appreciative grin. She might have been inquiring whether he’d like his liver with onions or plain. Now that he took the time to give her a second look, he realized that she bore a slight resemblance to the young woman who had captured Fenton’s attention at the ball. No doubt she was a cheap imitation, but then, he hadn’t been offered free entrée into London’s most exclusive brothel.

  Fenton had. But the master held himself to a higher standard. An ordinary whore would never suit him. Who would? Another man’s betrothed?

  “Is that blood on your shirt?” the harlot asked, sitting up to stare at the dark smear on her hand.

  “Probably.”

  “Well, I didn’t scratch you. And if you claim that I did, I’ll deny it. I thought you said you’d been in a performance? That’s real blood, for your information. I’m not as stupid as a sheep, and if you stain the bedding, the proprietress will double my fee. She only gave you a good price out of the charity of her heart. And what that means, mister, is that I’m basically letting you do me for—”

  “I’ll pay whatever she asks,” he said, throwing himself on top of her naked body before she could utter another word. “Your voice displeases me. You should try to sound like a lady. You could pass for one in the dark. Now close your mouth. And open your legs.”

  She gazed up at him with a professional aloofness that heightened his desire. “One does what one must. It isn’t always pleasant to pretend. But then, it’s part of doing business.”

  She gasped as he thrust into her; his body took advantage of hers as his mind moved ahead to other avenues. She deserved whatever price she demanded. She had not only given him a good toss—she had inadvertently led him to the door of Fenton’s destruction.

  As soon as he had spent himself again, he got up and dressed, his black coat over his arm, his beaver-trimmed hat in hand.

  “You’re welcome, mister.”

  He did not bother to answer. He was sick of answering to the name Pierce Carroll. He was tired of tea parties and honor and pretending to care about humanity. He intended to celebrate his twenty-seventh birthday in Paris at the end of the month. But first he intended to pay an outstanding debt in his father’s name.

  He wanted the redress to be as public and humiliating as possible . . . a dishonorable end to the principles and illusion of power that Captain Fenton had passed down to his son.

  Chapter 10

  Violet and Lady Ashfield spent the next day at home. Violet sat quietly writing thank-you letters to the marquess and his wife for the previous evening’s entertainment. Her aunt interrupted her every other minute to read an observation of the ball that she had come across in the papers. Violet managed to hide her curiosity by concentrating on her penmanship. But her heart jumped each time Aunt Francesca ment
ioned Kit’s name or praised his performance, and she sighed in relief when Francesca at last finished.

  “There is no description of the opening dance that you and that fencing master performed so well, Violet.”

  Or of the kisses they had shared so wickedly a little while later. Violet put down her pen, at a loss as to how to respond until she looked up at the mantelpiece clock.

  “It’s time for luncheon,” she said hastily, rising from the desk to ring the bell. “I can’t believe we’ve sat an entire morning without even a biscuit between us.”

  “Ah, here is another mention in Domestic Observances—”

  “Shall we have Chablis and cold chicken again? I fancy a slice of beef pie, but perhaps that should wait for—” She turned as Twyford appeared at the door. “Oh, I didn’t even have to ring. We are starving, Twyford,” she said. “And not particular about what you bring as long as it arrives soon.”

  “Yes, miss. Your luncheon is on the way. I thought that her ladyship would wish to enjoy these during her meal.”

  He entered the room, bowed before the baroness, and presented her with a delicate nosegay of anemones, roses, and bellflowers interspersed with sweetly fragrant shoots of honeysuckle. “They are from Godfrey,” Francesca said as she read the card before dropping it in her lap. “With his grave wishes for my recovery.”

  “How thoughtful.” Violet frowned at the faint sneer that flitted over the butler’s face. “Twyford, would you be so kind as to bring us a small vase?”

  “There is one in the cabinet behind you, Violet.” Francesca lifted the nosegay dismissively to her niece, her face averted. “He may as well have said to save these for my grave.”

  Violet nearly dropped the flowers onto the carpet. “What on earth do you mean by that?”

  Francesca glanced away with a guilty look. “Nothing. It is my black mood, I suppose. Death comes closer every day, and I am not prepared to meet it with grace. Put these in water before I die.”

  Violet unlatched the cabinet and brought out the vase for the footman who had just come into the room and deposited a silver luncheon tray on the table. “You are not seriously ill, and the best physician in London said so. You must stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Aunt Francesca nodded. “Don’t listen to me. Sir Godfrey means to be kind, I suppose. Is he taking us to the park later today?”

  “Our drive was planned for tomorrow,” Violet said in a gentle voice. “He had business affairs at the emporium today.”

  “Whose idea was it to visit a tumuli exhibit?” Francesca asked with the bluntness allowed only the young or those of advanced age.

  Violet motioned the footman to place the vase on the table. “It was mine. It wasn’t Godfrey’s. We won’t go if it upsets you. It’s a morbid idea, and I don’t know what I was thinking. It sounded interesting when I read about it in the paper. I think we should go to the library or shop for your new pelisse. Why is it so dark in here?”

  The footman went immediately to the window to adjust the curtains so that more light could penetrate into the room. Aunt Francesca appeared frail and her skin translucent as she raised her face to gaze outside. The thought entered Violet’s mind that her aunt would not die unexpectedly one day. She would fade away one moment at a time.

  “I wondered,” Francesca said in a hesitant voice, “if your interest in this exhibit didn’t have something to do with your earlier attraction to the old churchyard in Monk’s Huntley.”

  Violet smiled to cover a sudden stirring of guilt. How much did her aunt remember of those times? Violet had never been sure what Miss Higgins had confessed before she was dismissed. Silence during times of family scandal was golden indeed.

  “I liked to sketch, as you remember,” she said. “The yew trees and the overgrown graves reminded me of a forest that had fallen under an enchantment.”

  Francesca sighed. “I vaguely remember one of your sketches. You drew a very detailed picture of a young king or prince—I can’t recall. I’ll have to find it for you.”

  “I was an awful artist.”

  “There was something poignant about your drawings,” her aunt replied. “They seemed to tell stories that I could not understand. You were a fanciful child, Violet. Thank the stars that you have outgrown the age of temptation and have become a practical young woman.”

  Practical.

  If only Violet believed in her heart that her aunt spoke the truth.

  “You are practical, aren’t you, Violet?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “You weren’t tempted last night—”

  “To do what?”

  Twyford reappeared in the doorway. “We have a visitor, madam. It’s the Marchioness of Sedgecroft.”

  Violet resisted running into the hall to escape her aunt’s line of interrogation. “Well, do bring her in.”

  For a moment Francesca had entertained the most fanciful thought. She had expected Twyford to announce that their visitor was the dashing rogue who had danced with Violet at the ball. Her heart had gone still.

  Even she had recognized a romance when it unfolded before her. Perhaps she should have found an opportunity to explain to Violet why she had to be on guard at all times.

  But what if the truth only put ideas in Violet’s mind?

  Did Francesca want to open a Pandora’s box to the past? Why did Violet or anyone else have to know that she was illegitimate?

  May it please heaven that Francesca would take the secret of Violet’s scandalous origins with her to the grave.

  Miss Winifred Higgins drew off her gloves and shushed her nine-year-old daughter so that she could finish reading the paper she had purchased on her way back from the market. Winifred worked for her sister, who was a mantua maker on Bond Street, and brought home daily mending to pay expenses. “It’s about our performance last night, love. Let Mama read in peace for a few moments.”

  “What performance?” her daughter asked, stretching out on the rug with her assortment of fashion dolls, pattern magazines, and pocketbooks.

  Winifred pushed aside the sewing she’d left on her chair. “The one that Master Fenton and Mrs. Hawtry had us make costumes for.”

  “King Arthur and Hamlet?” Elsie rolled onto her elbow, pearls, ribbons, and bugle beads scattering across the rug. She regarded her mother with an absorption that was not returned.

  Winifred nodded, leaning closer to the coal fire to read. “Yes, yes, yes. Listen, Elsie.”

  Elsie turned back onto her stomach and stared into the fire.

  “‘In a series of elegant vignettes Fenton and his academy revived the chivalry and romance that the world has lost. The audience was left in awe at his display of this dying art and its principles of self-discipline and code of conduct. Fenton was at once enigmatic, dangerous, and elusive in his various parts. He won hearts with a sword that is said rarely to spill blood.’”

  A tap at the door interrupted her reading. “Oh, dear. That’ll be Mrs. Sims wanting the shift I haven’t finished.”

  “Shall I send her away, Mama? I’ll tell her you’ve gone out to buy thread.”

  “Don’t you dare open that door unless I tell you to. You have no idea who might be on the other side.”

  “Winifred,” a deep male voice whispered. “It’s only me.”

  Elsie jumped up. How she moved so quickly without decimating her doll assembly Winifred never understood. “It’s Master Fenton,” she said in excitement as her mother intercepted her in the middle of the floor. “Can’t we let him in?”

  Winifred pressed her ear to the door. “Who is it?” she whispered through the thick wood.

  “Another bleeding idiot. Open up, Winnie. I’ve news you have to hear.”

  She unlatched the door, barely allowing him to dip inside before she locked it again. She looked him over, sighing with the fond pride she would feel for a favorite brother or cousin. No one wore clothes as attractively as Kit. He was a tailor’s delight, and bless his wicked heart, he helpe
d Winnie out with a few pounds here and there, even though he would never be wealthy in his profession.

  “Come in. Mind you don’t get cat fur all over your coat. Elsie, put on tea, pet. I’ve read the paper, Kit. News indeed.”

  “That isn’t all.”

  He sat, arranging himself in an elegant way that detracted from the fact that the sofa legs wobbled under his slight weight. He waited to speak again until Elsie disappeared into the kitchen. “She’s here. Violet is in London. I saw her last night. It took only a moment before we recognized each other and . . .” He hesitated.

  “Violet?” Winifred felt chills run down her arms.

  “Violet Knowlton. She came to the performance in Park Lane. I opened the dance with her. We pretended to be strangers. She’s a lady, and even though last night I was rubbing shoulders with the marquess, I couldn’t acknowledge in public that she and I once were friends. God knows I could have ruined her life.”

  “You danced with Violet?” Winnie lowered her pricked finger to her lap. “She came to London to see you perform at the ball?”

  He shot her a rueful look. “Hardly. From what I gathered her aunt brought her here on a husband hunt, and to no one’s surprise, it was a success.”

  Winifred looked from Kit’s face to the fire. She couldn’t guess by his expression how he felt, but something unguarded had slipped into his voice. Vulnerability. As for herself . . . Violet’s arrival was welcome news. “What did she look like? Who is she marrying? Did she speak of me at all?”

  He laughed, reminding her of the unrestrained young rascal he had once been. He was still a rascal, but one who kept his wicked nature under a tight rein. “I don’t remember everything we spoke of. I don’t even remember whether she spoke to me first or I to her. She’s beautiful, Winnie. Her hair is dark, and her eyes are—” He broke off. “And her—”

  “Her what?” she interrupted, too eager to care about his hesitation.