by Brenda Hiatt
His friend peered down at the sheet in his hand. “Lady Beatrice is on mine as well, but I left off Miss Melks because of a rumor that her maternal grandfather had dabbled in trade. Other contenders include Miss Varens, though she’s been out nearly two years, and Lady Constance Throckwaite, Claridge’s daughter. Both fairly attractive and eminently respectable.”
Peter paused, then said, “I hear Mrs. Dempsey has called here twice in the last week, and you were seen in Covent Garden with Selena Riverton. If you’re at all serious about this, Jack, you’ll have to give up your paramours, at least until you’ve been safely wed for awhile.”
“Your sources are appallingly thorough, Peter! Miranda Dempsey has just returned from Paris, but I’ve carefully been ‘not at home’ to her, if you must know, and Selena accosted me by chance as I was passing the theater where she performs. Can I help it that women find me irresistible?” He grinned, his mood momentarily lightening. “Have you anyone else on your list?”
“There were a few others, but—of the debutantes—those I have already named were mentioned most often.”
“Of the debutantes?” echoed Jack. “What else is there?”
“Widows,” said Harry succinctly. Peter nodded.
Jack looked from one to the other with a frown. “A widow? I’ll admit that idea has more appeal than a virgin child.” His tastes had always tended to run to more experienced women—which had resulted in more than one near-miss with an irate husband. “But would that serve my purpose as well? After all—”
“One would,” Peter declared. “Except that I can’t vouch for her appearance, as no one seems to have seen her. Lady Haughton should just be coming out of her weeds this month.”
“Old Haughton was married?” asked Jack incredulously. “Hard to imagine, somehow.”
“Yes, scary old fellow, wasn’t he? Can’t say I’d have envied his wife. Kept her immured in the country.”
Jack frowned again. “But she’d be far older than I, wouldn’t she? I don’t know that I need rebel quite that thoroughly against the young chits.”
“Not at all,” Peter assured him. “Haughton married late. She’s no more than four- or five-and-twenty.”
Harry spoke up. “Now that you mention it, Pete, I heard something about her as well. Lady Creamcroft’s sister, isn’t she?”
“That’s right. The late Lord Cherryhurst’s daughter. Between them, he and old Haughton pretty well cornered the market on straitlaced respectability.”
Jack had met Lord Cherryhurst at his stepfather’s house when he was a lad, and retained an impression of a nose and chin jutting skyward. Any daughters would no doubt reflect their father’s starched-up formality. Truth to tell, a young woman who was the product of Cherryhurst’s upbringing and several years’ marriage to Haughton sounded terrifying—but perfect for his purposes.
“What’s her first name?”
Peter checked his notes. “Agnes.”
Harry snorted. “And her sister is Prudence, I seem to recall. No doubt both were well trained to live up to their names.”
Jack winced. Agnes. Purity. “I suppose I could at least meet her,” he said at last, remembering Fox Manor’s leaking roof. “I’ll also seek a reintroduction to Lady Beatrice. Perhaps she’s matured a bit since the summer.”
“Excellent!” Peter rose to slap him on the back. “We just need to arrange invitations to some of the same dos. Lady Beatrice is certain to be at the Mountheath’s musicale, and there’s an outside chance Lady Haughton may attend as well, for all she’s still in blacks.”
Jack snorted. “Lady Mountheath? She won’t have me under her roof. She’s the biggest gossipmonger in London—probably knows more about my reputation than I do.”
“Just show up,” Harry suggested with a grin. Over Peter’s indignant exclamation, he continued, “No one’s more terrified of a scandal than Lady Mountheath—too many people would jump at the chance to spread it, after all the dirt she’s dished over the years. And wouldn’t it create just that if she attempted to have the Marquis of Foxhaven ejected from her house? She’d never do it! Mark my word, she may look daggers at you, but she’ll never let on you weren’t invited if you appear at her door.”
Both Jack and Peter had to chuckle at the truth of Harry’s words. No one had a greater fear of exposure than someone who’d thrived for years on exposing others.
“I’ll try it,” said Jack with sudden decision. “And I’ll be everything that’s proper while I’m there, which in itself should go a long way toward repairing my reputation. Lady Mountheath’s rumor mill is legendary.”
“I’ll accompany you,” offered Peter. “I happen to have an invitation, which may mitigate your lack of one.”
Harry poured himself yet another measure of brandy. “I won’t wish you a good time, as I see little chance of that. I’ll bide my time more pleasantly at the club, and you can meet me there afterward to tell me how the first foray went.”
Nessa regarded her reflection in the dressing mirror with vague dissatisfaction. Her rich chestnut brown hair looked well enough piled high on her head, if a little severe. Simmons, her abigail, was weaving a spray of tiny silver silk flowers through the crown as an accent, though a few curls about her face would have made for a softer effect. Her complexion was well enough, but black had never been particularly flattering on her. And after nearly a full year wearing nothing but that hue, she was heartily tired of it.
No doubt the world—and her sister—would see it as vastly disrespectful when she discarded every black gown she owned (which numbered in the dozens) in two weeks’ time, but that was precisely what she intended to do. Perhaps giving them all to some charitable organization would mute criticism a bit. But whether it did or not, she never intended to wear black again come mid-October.
“Thank you, Simmons, that looks lovely,” she said, though privately she thought the silver flowers gave the impression that her hair was beginning to gray. But anything more colorful would have been frowned upon—particularly by her sister.
At least the lines of her black satin gown—as with all of her gowns—were elegant, if a bit high in the neckline for fashion. That would change too, she vowed, no matter what Prudence had to say to the matter. Taking up her black lace fan, she left her chamber.
“Nessa, you look lovely this evening,” her sister greeted her as they met at the head of the stairs. “Those silver flowers are a nice touch.”
Lord Creamcroft, at her side, murmured agreement with his wife’s words, but Nessa noticed that his eyes were all for Prudence. Did her sister have any idea of how her husband worshipped her? Nessa wondered. Probably not—she wouldn’t consider it proper for a husband to care so much for his wife. It was sad, in a way, for both of them. What might her own marriage have been like, had Lord Haughton loved her?
She forced a smile. “Thank you, Prudence. They were Simmons’ idea. Shall we go?”
Once inside the carriage, she resumed her musings. Most likely, had Lord Haughton cared more deeply for her he would simply have demanded sexual intimacy more frequently than those few incidents early in their marriage. Nessa shuddered.
“Are you cold, sister?” asked Lord Creamcroft kindly. He was an attractive man, with light brown hair and eyes, only a few years older than her sister. Nessa felt a brief, unexpected surge of envy.
“Thank you, no,” she replied. “Just a passing chill.” No, she would not envy any married woman! She knew, all too well, what the marriage state entailed: obedience, subordination and occasional subjection to distasteful physical contact. Even with a man closer to her own age than her father’s, or one reasonably attractive, it was nothing to be desired.
To be fair, since her arrival in London ten days ago she had seen no sign of Lord Creamcroft bullying her sister. Of course, he held her in affection, which might make a difference, she supposed. Unaccountably, her thoughts strayed back to the masked monk at the masquerade.
“Here we are,” Prudence announced ju
st then, interrupting her errant thoughts—which was probably just as well. “Is not the Mountheath house lovely?”
Nessa peered out of the carriage window as they slowly approached the entrance, waiting their turn behind a few other carriages. Lovely was not quite the word she’d have chosen. Imposing, certainly, with its enormous columns and frowning gray façade. She murmured something noncommittal.
A few minutes later, they stepped down from the carriage and entered the impressive edifice. The interior of the Mountheath Townhouse was as formally elegant as the exterior, Nessa noted. Both her father and husband would have approved of this place. She found it rather oppressive.
“Prudence, my dear,” a large, turbaned woman greeted them at the head of the stairs. “And Lord Creamcroft. Such a handsome couple, as I always tell everyone. And this must be the mysterious Lady Haughton!” Her eyes gleamed with avid curiosity.
Nessa dropped a half-curtsey. Her rank was equal to Lady Mountheath’s, but the latter’s age and role as hostess demanded the tribute. “Guilty as charged,” she assented daringly, and was not surprised to hear a soft gasp from her sister. Prudence had warned her that Lady Mountheath thrived on scandal, and she could not resist teasing a bit.
Their hostess, however, merely nodded, raking Nessa with her eyes. “Everyone has been wondering what you were like, my dear. I believe you will throw out the suppositions of the majority. But come, you must meet my daughters. New to London as you are, you’ll wish to make friends as soon as may be, I doubt not.”
Nessa very shortly decided that she’d as soon not number Miss Lucy and Miss Fanny among her close friends, even though both girls—she kindly refrained from calling them spinsters even in her thoughts—were near her in age. They both possessed their mother’s penchant for malicious gossip, as well as her tiny, sharp eyes and double chins.
“I can’t think why Mamma invited Miss Islington,” Lucy was confiding in a loud whisper as the three of them stood not far from the top of the stairs, where they had a good view of those entering. “Her cousin married well beneath him, you know. It must sink the whole family’s social standing to be associated with trade, even two generations removed.”
Nessa wished she had stayed with her sister and brother-in-law. She was searching for a reply that would neither condemn Miss Islington for her cousin’s connections nor offend her hostess’ daughters when Fanny gasped.
“Look! Look there, Lucy!” she hissed. “Is that not Jack Ashecroft? Or Lord Foxhaven, I suppose we must say, now. I am positively certain Mamma did not invite him!”
Her sister turned. “You’re right, Fanny! It is he! Do you suppose Mamma will have him removed?”
Nessa was forgotten as both sisters avidly watched the tableau unfolding at the entrance to the large room. She herself found the situation interesting, the more so when she got a good look at the man in question. Lord Foxhaven was without a doubt the handsomest man she’d ever seen, with thick, jet-black hair, noble profile, and breathtakingly athletic physique.
As she watched, Lady Mountheath greeted the gentleman accompanying him, then turned to face the supposedly uninvited guest. Her color rose precipitously as she apparently realized who he was. Nessa had thought her hostess’ smiles insincere before, but they were nothing to the strained expression she now wore. The corners of her lips looked as though a puppeteer’s strings pulled them upwards against her will. Nessa edged closer in hopes of hearing the exchange.
“Why, my lord, such a, er, delightful surprise,” Lady Mountheath was saying stiffly. “Had I but known you were in town …”
“Yes, I thought as much, my lady. Knowing your unfailing hospitality, I presumed on your kindness to accompany Lord Peter, praying that you’d not turn me away.”
Nessa swallowed, hard. She was almost certain she’d heard that voice before. But no, she must be mistaken. This appeared to be a man of some consequence, as did his companion.
Lady Mountheath managed to force a trill of laughter. “Turn you away! La, my lord, how droll you are. Come, both of you, and join the assemblage. You’ve met my daughters, I believe?” Behind her back, out of sight of the gentlemen, she beckoned Fanny and Lucy with one actively twitching hand.
“Charmed to see you again,” said Lord Peter, bending over the hand of first one, then the other suddenly simpering miss. He introduced Lord Foxhaven, who had apparently not made their acquaintance for all they’d recognized him on sight.
Nessa tried to move unobtrusively away as her suspicions sharpened. Unfortunately, Lady Mountheath recollected her manners before she could escape.
“Here is someone you’ll not have met,” she said, appearing oddly eager to call the interloper’s attention away from her daughters. “Lady Haughton is but newly come to Town, staying with her sister, Lady Creamcroft. Lady Haughton, may I present Lord Peter Northrup, son of the Duke of Marland, and His Lordship the Marquis of Foxhaven.”
Both gentlemen regarded Nessa with sudden interest, which was unsettling enough. But far more unsettling were the brilliant blue eyes of the marquis—eyes she had seen once before, through the slits of a brown mask!
Nessa had just presence of mind enough to modulate her voice into a softer, lower tone than she normally used, praying that Lord Foxhaven would not recognize her, as she made her answer. “I’m happy to make your acquaintance, gentlemen.” She dropped a perfectly proper half-curtsey.
“Lady Haughton, what a sur—that is, how nice to meet you here tonight.” Lord Peter winced visibly from the surreptitious kick the marquis had given him.
Nessa realized with a jolt that this had been the harlequin at the masquerade. She fought down her panic as Lord Foxhaven spoke.
“This is indeed a pleasure,” he agreed smoothly, succeeding in making her wonder whether she’d imagined that kick. “You are highly spoken of in all the best circles, my lady. It is my honor to make your acquaintance.” The bow accompanying this speech was the very picture of polished elegance.
“You are too kind, my lord,” she murmured, beginning to breathe somewhat easier, though she kept her eyes lowered. He hadn’t recognized her. At least, she cautioned herself, not yet.
Chapter Three
Jack glanced quickly at Lord Peter, then back to Lady Haughton. For a moment, he’d been almost certain he’d met her before, but now he began to doubt. Clearly Peter was showing no signs of recognition—not that he was the most perceptive of fellows. Besides, it seemed so unlikely, after all he’d been able to learn of Lady Haughton.
He’d done a bit of research since Peter had brought her name to his notice. As his friends had said, no one had seen her since her arrival in London two weeks ago, so he had not really expected her to attend tonight. Not only had she been in virtual seclusion since her husband’s death, but both she and Lady Creamcroft were complete sticklers for propriety—so much so as not to allow her appearance in public before her year of mourning was up.
Which made the possibility of her being the same woman he’d met at last week’s masquerade impossibly remote. “Monique,” whoever she’d been, had certainly not been a grief-stricken widow! Even if she had possessed melting brown eyes remarkably similar to Lady Haughton’s.
Still, he decided to attempt a small test. “Might I procure a glass of lemonade for you, my lady, before the entertainment begins?”
Though she kept her eyes demurely lowered, the long, mink-brown lashes fluttered at his words. “No, thank you, my lord,” she said after just the slightest hesitation. “I do not particularly care for lemonade.”
Jack watched her closely. Could it possibly be … ? But he decided not to press the matter—not just now, at any rate. If this really were the woman from the masquerade, he would find out soon enough. That could be very useful information. Very useful indeed.
“Ratafia, then, perhaps?”
She nodded then, not deigning—or daring?—to meet his eyes again. “Thank you, my lord. That would be pleasant.”
Peter accompanied Jack
to the buffet table. “Not quite the antidote you predicted, eh, Jack?” he commented as they obtained beverages for themselves along with Lady Haughton’s ratafia. “Rather prim, of course, but I’d say she shows potential.”
Jack smiled, remembering the luscious Monique. “Potential indeed, I suspect. Still, I don’t want to limit my options just yet. Did you notice whether Lady Beatrice is here tonight?”
“Over there, with her father.” Peter nodded toward the archway of the music room.
Following his glance, Jack saw Lady Beatrice, surrounded by half a dozen gallants, looking just as cool and lovely as he remembered. After meeting Lady Haughton, however, he found his enthusiasm for the blond debutante at a lower ebb than ever.
“Let’s see whether my new position will garner me more than the stiff nod plain Jack Ashecroft received when I first met her, shall we?”
Lady Haughton’s ratafia in hand, he detoured past the music room. “Good evening, Lady Beatrice, Sherbourne.” He nodded to the lady in question and her father, in turn. “How nice to see you again.”
Lord Sherbourne frowned at him suspiciously. “Evening, Foxhaven,” he said with a stiff nod. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Jack allowed himself a half-smile. “Ah, sometimes I surprise even myself.” He turned to face Lady Beatrice.
She smiled limpidly, darted a quick, curious glance at her father’s sour expression, then regarded Jack again, more warily. “Good evening, my lord. I had not realized you had returned to London.”
Jack wasn’t surprised. His exploits since his return to the metropolis had hardly been of the sort to reach such a sheltered miss’s ears.
It seemed her father was thinking along similar lines. “Come, Beatrice,” he said before Jack could respond. “Your mother will be expecting us to join her within for the performance.” With a warning glance over his shoulder, he led his daughter away from Jack’s dangerous influence.