“Hurry,” Lady Wessex said without turning to her daughters, “or we’ll be late again. No man likes a woman who is perpetually late.”
“How can I possibly hurry?” Camille whined, taking little trotting steps in an attempt to catch up with her mother. “This new gown is too small and I can’t get my breath. I told you it was too small when the dressmaker came last week for the fitting.”
“I’ll take it back if it’s too small,” Portia whispered loudly, catching up to Camille and leaving the youngest sister to trail behind them. “I’ve been asking for a new gown for weeks, Mother. I’m certain Lord Carter—”
“Oh, who cares about Lord Carter?” Camille snapped, turning to look at Portia as she walked beside her. The organist had already begun to play the introit. They were officially late. “I’m to be married first. Mother has already promised.”
“And precisely who do you intend to marry?” Portia asked. “You scare off every man who comes to call with your constant complaints.”
They entered the chapel by the broad center aisle as organ music filled the cavernous room. “It’s not true—is it, Mother?” Camille demanded in her high-pitched voice. “I don’t scare off the gentlemen—it’s only that we’re being so particular, isn’t it?”
“That’s enough, young ladies.” Lady Wessex lifted her thin nose beneath the broad brim of her hat and marched directly to the front, despite their tardiness. “We are in the house of the Lord where you should be reckoning your hearts and finding the proper attitude of humility required for the Sabbath.” She slid into the third pew from the front on the left. While there were no family pews per se, this had been the Wessex pew at St. George’s for more than a hundred years, according to her late husband.
Just as Lady Wessex and her daughters sat, the priest entered and the congregation rose to sing. Refusing to appear flustered, she took her time to find the proper page in the hymnal she carried under her arm before turning to her dear friend Lady Wellington.
“I feared you were ill,” Lady Wellington whispered, staring straight ahead as if her full attention was on the first hymn selection.
“Late, I know. So much to do now that there’s a man in the household again,” Lady Wessex explained.
“Lord Wessex the American, yes. Is he very demanding?”
Lady Wessex smiled patronizingly. “Not more than any man, I fear.”
Lady Wellington lowered her voice, glancing in Camille’s direction. “Is Lord Wessex as smitten with your Camille as all the other young bucks who come to call?”
“Oh, quite,” Lady Wessex agreed, and then sang the last words of the verse, beginning in midsentence.
“Good morning, Lady Wessex,” Lady Marlboro greeted from the pew behind her.
Several parishioners glanced at the women in obvious reprimand. Lady Marlboro, though a dear friend of Lady Wessex’s, was hard of hearing and therefore always spoke louder than necessary, even about Mr. West’s slightly off-key organ playing.
“Good morning, Lady Marlboro,” Lady Wessex called over her shoulder. Then, hearing Camille still whispering under breath to her sister about her dress, she gave her daughter’s ear a quick tug.
“Ouch!”
“Shh,” admonished a woman in the pew in front of them.
“Did you see them?” Lady Marlboro said loudly into Lady Wessex’s ear.
The congregation continued to sing one of John Mason Neale’s hymns that he had translated from Latin, but Lady Wessex didn’t like the hymn anyway. Parishioners all around eyed them with disapproval, but they didn’t dare suggest Lady Wessex and her friend cease talking. Each one of the ladies was too important in London right now, for one reason or another, to offend. Lady Wellington’s husband had the new King William’s ear, they said, and would talk of a new reform bill to redistribute seats in the House. He was not a man to cross. Lady Marlboro’s husband was currently an important man in the Court of Faculties and Dispensations, a person one wanted to remain on good terms with should one ever wish to be granted privileges one was not entitled to by law. And Lady Wessex was the talk of society since her husband’s heir arrived. Everyone wanted to remain on her good side in the hopes of being invited to one of her teas, balls, or perhaps even a daughter’s engagement party—if there was any truth to the rumor that the American heir had his eye on Camille, Lady Wessex’s eldest daughter.
Lady Wessex leaned back. “Do I see who, dear?”
“Those young ladies who attended your reception for Lord Wessex.” Lady Marlboro’s voice took an accusatory tone. “The redhead, the pretty one caught with Lord Wessex. Her so-called sister is here, too, but they couldn’t possibly be sisters. Look at the color of her skin!” She pointed with a perfumed handkerchief to a pew across the aisle and one forward of Lady Wessex’s. “Didn’t you hear?” she said loudly.
The hymn came to an end, at last, but then the organist moved directly into another.
“That Lord and Lady Carlisle were forced to ask them to leave? Yes, of course.” Lady Wessex sniffed.
“Noooo,” Lady Marlboro cried excitedly, grabbing her large brimmed hat so that it wouldn’t strike Lady Wessex’s as she leaned forward over the pew. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard! Didn’t you see them at the theater last night?”
“Come, come, what is this dreadful news?”
“Because Miss Fabergine and her godmother were put out of the Carlisles’, she and the one with the dark skin have been forced to go into keeping!”
“No,” Lady Wessex breathed.
“No,” Lady Wellington chimed in.
“God’s truth,” Lady Marlboro swore. “She’s looking for a protector, taking offers.”
“Shocking.” Lady Wellington rested her hand on Lady Wessex’s arm, peering into her face. “It’s just as well the Carlisles distanced themselves from the whole lot of them. Can you imagine the scandal?”
“It’s a good thing she has no family in England, that’s all I have to say,” Lady Marlboro continued, now full of herself and her news. “Such scandal could put a family name in ruin in a matter of weeks.”
“And to think you invited Miss Fabergine into your home.” Lady Wellington squeezed Lady Wessex’s hand before releasing it. “But of course you had no idea what kind of woman she was when you extended that invitation.”
“I had no idea,” Lady Wessex agreed. “They were houseguests of the Carlisles’, just come from Martinique. How was I to know? I was only doing what was de rigeur, extending my invitation to them.”
“How was anyone to know?” Lady Marlboro insisted. “It’s scandalous.”
The hymn came to an end and, at the priest’s direction, the congregation took their seats. Lady Wessex sat down on the cushioned pew and glanced at her daughters sitting in a row beside her. Poor Lady Carlisle, Lady Wessex thought. She had to be beside herself, knowing she had let such undesirables into her home. Thank goodness her children were all married and gone.
Closing her hymn book, Lady Wessex folded her hands neatly on her lap as the rector began his sermon. Though his sermons tended to be long and tedious, she was thankful for this peaceful time each Sunday. It gave her the perfect opportunity to plan her week’s menus in her head.
“I appreciate your taking the time to see me, Lord Wessex,” Jessup Stowe said, clearing his throat. “I hope your stay in London has been pleasant so far.”
“It has not.” Blake took the same leather chair he had occupied the last time he visited the barrister’s office. “Lady Wessex is the most irritating woman I have ever met. She does not shut up long enough to let a man think, no less speak.”
“But what of her daughter Camille?” The barrister smiled knowingly, looking over his wireframe glasses. “I understand you have interest in that direction. Very wise. Though there’s no longer any money in that family. Her father, Lord Danby, Lady Wessex’s previous husband, was not only a powerful man, but well-respected. His entailment also went to a distant relative, I understand.”
Stowe returned his gaze to the documents before him on his desk. “Yes, well…”
“Yes, well, what?” Blake commanded. “You called me for a reason. Papers to sign, more bills to pay, perhaps?”
“Yes, yes, of course. A few documents, but also…” Stowe looked up, then down and then up again. “A delicate matter that has come to my attention.”
Blake waited.
“There is a young woman who—” Stowe’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he attempted to find the right words “—who claims she is the late Lord Wessex’s legitimate daughter.”
Blake shot out his chair. “She’s been here, too?” he asked. “That little conniving…” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring down at the waxed wood floor as he walked around the back of the chair and began to pace. “Persistent little minx, though, isn’t she?” he said as much to himself as to Stowe.
“Then you’ve spoken with her, my lord?”
“She’s a charlatan, just like the others who have darkened my door since my arrival in London, laying claim to monies or favors owed.”
“This…” Stowe caught his breath and then went on. “This young woman asks for no monies, or even favors. She simply requests that she be acknowledged as Lord Wessex’s legitimate daughter.”
“How the hell could that girl be Wessex’s daughter? His first wife, the first I know of, died in childbirth with their first child eighteen years ago. He was only married to this one, his supposed second wife—” he hooked his thumb over his shoulder, continuing to pace “—ten or twelve years.”
“This young woman, her name is Sapphire Fabergine—”
“I know what her name is,” Blake snapped. “She’s been plaguing me for weeks.”
Stowe was silent for a moment and then continued. “She claims her mother was legally wed to Lord Wessex approximately twenty years ago. Her mother was a poor, uneducated country girl, so the family was, of course, completely against any union between them. She asserts that when the Thixton family discovered the couple had married, they had the young woman kidnapped and sent to America, where she gave birth to Edward’s daughter, the young Miss Sapphire. Apparently the Dowager Wessex would be his third wife…of sorts.”
“It’s a preposterous story! A lie built upon lies to help the girl move up the ladder of London society.”
“Yes, my lord, it sounds preposterous, but sometimes the most outrageous accounts are the ones that are true. This would not be the first time a good family has attempted to erase a bad marriage from the annals of history. With this in mind, I was wondering if you would object to my researching the girl’s claim. At my own expense, of course,” Jessup added quickly.
Blake halted, resting one hand on the soft, rich leather of the chair. Stowe had surprised him again and he liked being surprised by people because it happened so rarely. Jessup Stowe was a man of stronger character than he appeared on the surface. “I’m telling you, the whole story is ridiculous. I don’t care what this girl says she wants, she’s just more cunning than the others. She wants money, which you and I both know doesn’t exist.”
“Just these few documents have need of your signature, my lord.” Stowe pushed them across the desk and offered an ink pen.
Blake came around the chair and leaned over the desk to scrawl his signature.
Stowe waited until the documents were signed and Blake had slid them back across the table. “So you have no objections to me making a few inquiries?”
Blake turned to stroll out of the office, raising one hand. “Do what you like, Stowe. Just get this paperwork done so I can get the hell out of England.”
“Where are you going, love?” Jessup put out his arms, watching Lucia in the candlelight as she crossed his bedchamber completely unclothed. His heart felt like it would pound right out of his chest. Never in their entire life together had his dearly departed Emma ever allowed him to see her nude. “Come back,” he beckoned.
“I told you, Jessup, my chicks. I must go home.” She picked up a silk dressing robe from the chair in the corner of the room and slipped it around her shoulders, giving him one more glimpse of her pale, lovely breasts before she covered them.
“But what will I do when you go? I’ll miss you too much to bear it.”
She laughed and walked back to the bed to sit on the edge. “What will you do? The same thing every man does after he makes love to a woman. You’ll roll over in your comfortable bed and be asleep before my carriage departs downstairs.”
He took her hand, lifting it to his cheek. She smelled so good to him, felt so good, that it truly was hard for him to let her go, even for the night. Especially for the night. He had slept too long alone and he didn’t like it. “Just a few more minutes, Lucia. I’ll take you home myself.”
“You’ll do no such thing this time of the night. I’m too independent a woman to allow it.” She leaned down to touch her lips to his. “Though I must say it is nice to be so desired.”
“I don’t just desire you,” he said quietly. “I love you, Lucia.”
She smiled down on him, wishing she could believe him, but she knew better than to believe any man. “Perhaps I can come back tomorrow night. Sapphire and Angelique were invited to some party or another. They want me to go along, but I thought I might stay in a night. All these parties—they’re tiring for a woman of my age.”
“Your age?” He kissed her hand. “You’re twice as beautiful as a woman half your age.”
“And how do you know my age?” she asked, lifting a brow.
He smiled. “I can guess.”
She smiled in return. “You can guess, but I’ll not tell. Now I really must go, but I’ll come back Saturday night. I promise.” She started to get up but he pulled her back.
“I’ve something to tell you. Something I think will please you. Will you stay long enough to hear?”
“What do you want to tell me? Lord Wessex has come to his senses and agreed to give my Sapphire an audience?” She lifted one finger, touching it to his nose. “Better yet, he has denounced the Countess of Wessex, declared Sapphire’s mother to be the true wife of Edward and eagerly awaits the opportunity to acknowledge Sapphire amidst all of London society?”
He looked down at the bed. “It’s not that good, but it is more realistic, Lucia darling.”
She softened and reached out to stroke his cheek, which at this hour was rough with stubble. “Do tell.”
“I saw Lord Wessex today on another matter, and while we were conversing, I brought up Sapphire.”
Lucia stood up abruptly. “You know Lord Wessex personally and you didn’t tell me?”
“You know very well a barrister does not discuss his clients with others.”
She scowled. “I’m not others, Jessup. You just made passionate love to me.” With a jerk, she tightened the silk tie on her robe. “You just claimed you loved me and now you tell me that Lord Wessex has been a client of yours and you failed to tell me?”
Jessup leaned against the headboard, readjusting his pillows. “Do you want to hear or not?”
She studied him for a moment. He had more spine than she had thought. Most men, after making love to her, could easily be crushed, certainly more easily manipulated. “Tell me.”
“Sit down.” He patted the bed.
She reluctantly complied with his request but only sat on the edge, her arms still crossed over her chest. “I’m listening.”
“While Lord Wessex does not believe there is truth to Sapphire’s claim—”
“Ho
w would he know? An American, just come—”
“Are you going to let me finish or not, dear?”
Lucia pressed her lips together and nodded.
Jessup cleared his throat and began again. “While Lord Wessex does not believe there is reason to think her claim to be true, he is willing to allow me to look into the matter.”
“Jessup, that’s superb!” Lucia leaned forward, throwing her arms around him. “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”
He smoothed her hair tenderly and brought his lips across hers. “Because you wouldn’t give me a chance, love.”
“What a silly man,” Lucia murmured, covering his face with kisses. “You really should pay me no mind and speak up.” She drew her mouth to his and their kiss deepened.
When she pulled away, her heart pitter-pattering in her chest, she looked up at him through her lashes. “Would you like me to stay a little longer?” she whispered, slipping her hand under the coverlet to stroke his bare thigh.
“Just a little longer,” he answered, a twinkle in his eyes as he slid her hand farther up. “And maybe I’ll have something else for you….”
“Don’t go,” Clarabelle begged, sitting up on her knees on the four-poster bed, drawing the coverlet over her pert, bare breasts.
“Not so soon,” Clarissa, her twin sister chimed in, coming to her knees beside Clarabelle. Like Clarabelle, she had waist-length red hair that fell in thick curls down her back, but unlike her sister, she had a mole to the right of her sensuous mouth, allowing him to tell them apart.
Blake watched a ringlet of hair fall at Clarissa’s pale nipple and he contemplated their request. He’d been in their apartment for hours and had certainly enjoyed the pleasure of them both, but still, there was something unsatisfying about them, separate or together. They had relieved his tensions in several creative ways, but he still found himself restless, thinking of another redhead while he made love to the two in his arms.
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