Sapphire

by Rosemary Rogers

  “We’ll miss you.” Clarabelle pouted, dropping the coverlet to reveal her nakedness.

  Blake watched as she slowly slid her hand over one full breast and down her belly to the patch of dark curls at the apex of her thighs. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes and glided her hand up and down to pleasure herself while her sister watched.

  Stirring, but not stirring enough. Blake stepped into his trousers, which he had left folded neatly over a Louis XIV chair. He had to admit that the courtesans had good taste in both clothing and decor. They were wealthy, indeed, thanks to the frequency with which they were apparently summoned to the king.

  After slipping into his white shirt, Blake sat down on the chair to pull on his stockings. It was after one in the morning and he was tired. He’d had too much to drink, too much rich food. He’d scheduled an appointment in the morning with a steam-packet agent and he needed a clear head by then. He had decided that whether his business was completed here in London or not, he was ready to go home. He would simply give Stowe permission to sign whatever needed to be signed and sell whatever needed to be sold. His life was in Boston and it was time he returned to his business.

  “I can’t believe you would leave us alone in this big bed,” Clarissa simpered, looking at him with her large blue eyes.

  He leaned over to slip one foot and then the other into his boots. Standing, he grabbed his waistcoat and coat and walked toward the door. “I left money beside the bed,” he told the sisters.

  Clarabelle was on the stack of bills in an instant. “Will you come back tomorrow night?” she purred when she realized how large a sum he had left.

  He didn’t care. It was only money and he had more than enough to last him a lifetime. “Good night.” He lifted his hand in farewell and let himself out.

  Twenty minutes later, Blake entered his town house in the West End of London. The butler, asleep on a chair in the front hall, leaped to his feet as Blake walked in the door.

  “Lord Wessex,” Preston greeted, trying to appear as if he had not nodded off.

  “Go to bed, Preston. I’ve no need of your services. In fact, you may always go to bed if I have not returned by eleven at night.” He tossed his hat and coat to the butler.

  “My lord?” Preston said as Blake walked past him.

  Blake rubbed his temples. He could feel a headache coming on that would last well through noon tomorrow. “Yes?” he asked, not bothering to turn back.

  “Lady Wessex, my lord.” He sounded uncertain. “She waits for you in the parlor.”

  Frowning in confusion, he turned around to look at the butler. “At this time of night?” he asked incredulously. “It’s nearly two.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Preston bobbed his head, keeping his gaze fixed on the polished floor.

  With a groan, Blake walked away. He had half a mind to just go to bed and let the old biddy sit up all night waiting for him, but he walked down the hall toward the parlor where he had first met Sapphire. He didn’t know what made him think of her as he turned the doorknob. “You needed to speak with me, Lady Wessex?” he asked, trying not to sound more interested than he was, which presently was not at all.

  Unlike Preston, she had not been dozing while she kept vigil. She flew up out of her seat, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “My lord, thank heavens you’ve returned. I received the most disturbing news today and I knew you would want to know at once.”

  He stared at her for a moment and rested a hand on the back of a horsehair couch as he let her words sink in through the fog brought on by the scotch he’d consumed. He couldn’t imagine the dowager had any news of importance, but he asked the expected question anyway. “And what is that?”

  “Well,” she began, “you know that young woman who was staying with the Lord and Lady Carlisle but had to be put out because of her inappropriate behavior.”

  He felt his forehead wrinkle. “No, I have no idea who you speak of.”

  She drew closer to him, lowering her lashes. “The young woman who was seen alone with you, my lord.”

  “When?” he asked impatiently.

  “Sapphire Fabergine is her name.”

  Suddenly Lady Wessex had his attention and he looked up, the fog clearing.

  “Pardon me first for even having to bring up such a delicate subject,” she went on.

  He motioned impatiently to her to get on with her story.

  “Two weeks past, perhaps three, she made it known that she was setting herself up in keeping.” Lady Wessex didn’t look at him. “Looking for a protector to care for her.”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose I heard that—but what does it have to do with me?” He didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

  “My lord.” Her eyes filled with tears. “She is spreading a nasty rumor that she is my late husband’s legitimate daughter,” she said, suddenly looking faint.

  He groaned, seeing her sway. “Lady Wessex, perhaps you should sit down,” he said as he reluctantly came around the chair.

  She put her hand out to him, leaving him no choice but to take it. “I am feeling a little light-headed.”

  He helped her sit down on the settee.

  “I…don’t know what to do. It’s untrue, of course.” She wiped her mouth with her handkerchief. “But I would never want you to think our family, my daughter Camille—”

  “What in God’s name has your daughter Camille got to do with this?” he interrupted.

  “My lord, if you’re serious concerning your interest in my eldest daught—”

  “Interest in your eldest daughter!” He stared at her. “Madame, I don’t mean to insult you or your daughter, but I don’t believe I have ever even spoken to her. I’m quite sure she hasn’t spoken to me and I’m not even sure which one she is.” Then he thought about the fact that Stowe had mentioned Camille, too. Was this more gossip being spread, that he was calling on Lady Wessex’s daughter? Exactly what did Lady Wessex think she was doing?

  “My lord, I know this is a delicate matter,” Lady Wessex went on, seeming not to have heard what he said. “But I assure you there is no truth to this young woman’s claim. She’s merely out to see what she can gain from my husband’s leavings.”

  “Of which there are none,” he said wryly.

  “But I want you to know, this should in no way alter your feelings for my daughter. Any intentions you might have—”

  “I have no intentions for your daughter! Would you listen to me, woman?”

  Lady Wessex began to cry. “Such a scandal, even if it is a lie. I just knew it would be the ruin of us. I just knew—”

  Blake turned away and walked toward the door.

  “My lord, where are you going?” she cried, rising to her feet.

  “I don’t know,” he shouted back. “Just away from here.”

  12

  “Ah, hell and fire,” Angelique muttered as she gazed at the Irish case clock standing against the wall. “I should go.”

  “Don’t go,” Henry said sleepily, draping one arm over her waist and kissing her bare shoulder.

  “If I don’t, Sapphire will be up all night worrying.” She ruffled his hair and started to climb over him to get out of the high tester bed.

  “Are you leaving us?” A hand reached out to clasp her arm and she glanced over her shoulder to see Charles lift his head from the rumpled pillow and gaze up at her, red-eyed, his voice scratchy with too much drink and not enough sleep.

  “Charles,” she said impatiently. Though the man had a great deal more money than Henry, she simply didn’t like him as much. He was positively a goat in bed. “I told you I couldn’t spend the entire night.” She glanced down at her arm and he released her. “You really could use a bath.”

  “But I want to make love with you again,” he whined.

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re so greedy, Charles.”

  “But I want to make love with you again, too,” Henry joined in, trying to catch her around the waist as she climbed over him.

>   She slapped his hands away playfully, landing barefoot on the worn Safavid carpet. “Then you’re both greedy little boys, greedy little piglets who are never satiated. You know what we do with greedy piglets in Martinique, don’t you?” She stood beside the bed, naked in her glory, and poured herself some sherry from a nearly empty decanter. “We put them in the stew pot and eat them for Sunday supper.” She took a long drink and passed it to Henry, who drank, then passed it to Charles.

  Henry flopped onto his back and watched Angelique walk across the room to gather her clothing. Henry and Charles both rented rooms in the same boarding-house in the Temple Gardens district of London, run by a Mrs. Talbot, who Angelique knew for a fact was willing to accept sexual favors in return for missed rent payments. The young university men all thought she was crazy, and though most of them had sired themselves out to her on at least one occasion to prevent her from contacting their fathers, they all scorned her privately. Angelique rather admired her; she was a woman who could financially take care of herself and gain a little pleasure in the task. How could any independent woman not love her?

  “Did you speak with Sapphire about the ball?” Angelique asked, turning up the flame on the oil lamp beside the chair she had perched on. When Charles didn’t answer, she turned toward the bed as she rolled up one pink silk stocking. “Charles, did you ask her?”

  “A hundred times,” he groaned, drinking to the bottom of the sherry glass before dropping it on the floor beside the bed. He lay back, closing his eyes. “I must confess, Angie love, my patience is wearing thing. I’ve spent a fortune dining, attending plays, buying her trinkets, and I’ve got nothing out of her but a taste of her lips.”

  “I told you,” Angelique said impatiently. “I told you from the beginning, she isn’t like me.”

  “You can say that again,” Henry chuckled, adding a sexually explicit phrase under his breath.

  Charles laughed. Angelique didn’t. “Do you want her or don’t you?” she asked, rolling on her other stocking.

  “I do. You know I do. Damn her, she’s got my balls so blue, I actually half proposed to her the other night.”

  “Did you really?” Angelique stood up, stepped into her shoes and reached for her wrinkled chemise. “She didn’t tell me. But surely she will accept your invitation to the ball.”

  “I don’t know.” He frowned and rested his forearm on his forehead. “She seems fond of Salmons.”

  “Salmons doesn’t hold a candle to you, Charlie.” Henry gave him a good-natured slap on his bare belly.

  Charles knocked his hand away. “I’m just not used to not getting what I want, when I want it.”

  “Did you mean it?” She dropped the chemise over her head and picked up her stays. “I mean the part about being willing to marry her?”

  Charles shrugged. “I suppose I must marry someone, and marrying her would certainly infuriate my parents, considering her reputation. That alone would be worth it, perhaps.”

  “Because marriage is what she wants. Marriage to a good man.”

  “I’ll vouch for Charlie. A finer chap I’ve never known.” Henry went to hit him again, but Charles caught his hand in time to stop him.

  “I just don’t know if you’re the right man for her,” Angelique said, stepping into her rumpled pink gown and slipping her arms into the sleeves.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean? My family—”

  “Your family,” Angelique interrupted, “made its wealth less than a hundred years ago off the bad fortune of others. Her family, without money or not, is descended from Anglo-Saxon kings.”

  “I’ve yet to see any proof of her claim,” Charlie said airily.

  “You’ll not speak of my Sapphire that way, Lord Thomas,” Angelique fumed as she marched over to the bed while struggling to straighten her bodice. “Take it back this moment or I’ll tell Sapphire just where you were tonight, in this bed, performing those unlawful acts.”

  He frowned and crossed his arms over his bare chest like a little boy scolded by his mother. “And she would be angry with me and not you?”

  “Sapphire loves me.”

  “I love you,” Henry said sweetly, reaching out to take her hand and bring it to his lips.

  She smiled down at him. “I know you think you do, dear.” He must have brought his own furnishings to these rooms, she mused. The case clock was an Alex Kelt, and he had two lovely rugs, worn, but still very nice. Henry might not be flush, but he did have substance.

  “No, I mean it.” He sat up. “I would marry you. Portia Stillman be damned, my parents be damned. I would give up my inheritance to marry you in a minute.”

  “And what on earth would make you think I would marry you without your inheritance?” With a smile playing on her lips, she turned her back to him and sat on the edge of the bed. “Lace me up, will you? I really must go.”

  Henry laced up her gown and she leaned over and kissed him soundly.

  “Will I see you tomorrow night?”

  “It’s already tomorrow,” she said as she thought to herself that she liked Henry much better than she ought to.

  “Will you see me tonight?” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “Very likely.” She leaned over Henry and kissed Charles on the lips. “Bye, sweet.”

  “Tell Sapphire I was asking for her, and do put in a good word for me,” Charles said.

  Angelique grabbed her silk wrap and reticule and skipped toward the door. “I will. Sleep tight, gentlemen.” She gave them a wave and was gone.

  “You want me to see ’bout that green ribbon, Miss Sapphire?” Avena asked, taking great care to enunciate each word correctly. “I could run down to the dress shop and get you more.”

  “And see Bixby Dawson at the same time?” Angelique teased from the stool where she sat in front of the vanity, twisting her hair into fat curls with the aid of a hair iron Avena had heated for her.

  Lord Carter was coming for Angelique at noon and they were attending boat races on the Thames. Sapphire had also been invited by several of the young men courting her, but she had feigned fatigue out of desire to stay home for just one day. It seemed as if it had been months rather than weeks since she’d had a chance to sit and read a book or go for a walk without worrying about entertaining the fawning gentlemen who constantly surrounded her.

  Avena smiled mischievously, color appearing on her cheeks. “Not yer business if I do see Mr. Dawson, Miss Angel.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it is. Nor is it my business if you sneaked out late last night to meet him.”

  Avena’s smile turned into a broad, proud grin. “We didn’t do nuthin’…anything but take a walk in the moonlight. I’m a good girl, now.” She giggled behind her hand as if she were a schoolgirl. “Bixby’s been wantin’ a piece of tail so bad, he asked me last night if I thought he was the kind of man I might be willin’ to marry.”

  “Sounds romantic,” Sapphire told Avena, genuinely happy for her. “You will say yes if he asks you, won’t you?”

  “Can’t imagine bein’ married to a man like that,” Avena murmured dreamily. “Me, Mrs. Bixby Dawson, a tailor’s wife!”

  “He’d be lucky to have you as his wife, Avena,” Sapphire said, unable to suppress a twinge of something akin to jealousy. It wasn’t that she wanted any part of Mr. Bixby or any man like him, but she did find herself longing for someone who cared for her the way the tailor seemed to care for Avena. “If you wouldn’t mind going down the street, I would like some more ribbon for my costume for the masquerade ball Saturday evening. Another three or four yards would be wonderful.” She sat on the bed, her mother’s wood and leather casket beside her. She waited until Avena had gone and then opened the lid.

  Angelique watched Sapphire in the mirror. “You seem quiet this morning. What’s the matter? Why aren’t you more excited? You’ll be the belle of the ball Saturday night.”

  “You mean you will,” Sapphire corrected, carefully setting aside her father’s love letters to locate the pr
ecious sapphire in its velvet bag.

  Angelique set down the curling iron and rose, crossing the room to sit beside Sapphire on the bed. She wrapped an arm around her. “Tell me what’s wrong. You’ve been having such a wonderful time these past few weeks, meeting all these exciting men. Men you would never have had the opportunity to meet in Martinique. Why, they say half the eligible men in London are madly in love with you.” She giggled, giving Sapphire a peck on the cheek. “And a few who are not eligible, I understand.”

  Sapphire lifted the gem out of the small trunk and held it in her palm, feeling its weight. “I can’t continue to string these men along this way. They’re beginning to press me for a decision. I knew this was a bad idea.” She looked up, her tone full of introspection. “Angel, they think I’m going to accept money from them to allow them to…” She couldn’t finish her sentence, and not just because of the subject. She’d been feeling guilty for weeks.

  Everyone in London was buzzing about who she was and who she claimed to be, but still she had heard nothing from Mr. Thixton. She had heard that he moved out of the Wessex town house and into a hotel. Then yesterday she had heard that he proposed to Lady Wessex’s eldest daughter, Camille, and that a whirlwind wedding was being planned before he returned to America. Somehow, Sapphire had a difficult time imagining Mr. Thixton with someone like Camille—but who was she to say and what did she care? She despised the American blackguard and Camille Stillmore could have him!

  The dilemma for Sapphire, however, was that if Blake Thixton left without allowing her to at least discuss the matter of her birth with him, she didn’t know what to do next. Aunt Lucia said that her Mr. Stowe would find proof of Sophie’s marriage to Edward, but Sapphire didn’t know what she was supposed to do in the meantime. It had never occurred to her that she might not accomplish what she’d set out to do, and now she felt as if she were drifting in a dinghy without sail or oars on the vast ocean they had traversed to reach England.

  “So you can’t string them along much longer. Fine,” Angelique said, resting her hands in her lap. “Then perhaps you should take one of them up on their offer.”