Lady Windermere's Lover

by Miranda Neville

  Windermere broke into the conversation. “When they do so at the expense of good order, the result is the kind of horror I saw in France during the worst of the Revolution. I would hate to see blood running in the streets of London.”

  Julian threw back his head and laughed. “Bravo, Damian! Ten years ago I would never have thought to hear such a speech from an admirer of liberty, equality, and fraternity. Your father would be proud.”

  Damian’s features twisted into an expression Cynthia had never seen and could not read. Disgust, perhaps, or cynicism, or some blend of the two overlaid by a veil of sorrow. She wished she knew what it meant.

  Chapter 7

  “Are Mr. and Mrs. Lewis good whist players?” Denford jerked his head at the table where Damian’s cousins had settled down to play a rubber against Cynthia and Bream.

  “Fair enough,” Damian replied.

  “It doesn’t matter. They’ll win. Oliver always trumps his partner’s aces. Since you arranged the game, you should be ready to pay your wife’s debts.”

  He bit back a query about his wife’s skill. He had no clue how well she played cards, while Julian, no doubt, was well aware. The thought infuriated him, and he had only himself to blame for his ignorance. If he had stayed in England, he would know about Cynthia’s whist skills and a lot of other things too. And Julian would never have had the chance to seduce her. Yet she had been so different then . . . or perhaps not. He hadn’t taken the trouble to find out.

  He took a deep breath and tucked his feelings away. He had a job to do.

  “Will you join me?” he asked. “Brandy?”

  They settled in a pair of chairs next to a malachite table as far from the cardplayers as the length of the drawing room allowed. Once Damian had known Julian’s expressions as well as his own, could distinguish the true emotions that sometimes cut through the wall of cynical worldliness. He hoped he still could and would be able to tell whether Julian lied about the Falleron collection.

  Julian accepted a glass, breathed deep, and tasted. “A fine cognac,” he said. He didn’t need to mention that they had discovered the joys of French wines together in the cafes of Paris. Damian felt sure that they were sharing the same memory. But when his former friend raised his eyes from contemplation of the golden brown spirits, his expression was cold and mocking.

  “Why am I here, Windermere?” he asked. No more false bonhomie and Christian names. “What do you want? If I remember correctly, the last time we spoke at any length was some six years ago when you took a great deal of pleasure in informing me that Lord Maddox wasn’t going to sell his pictures to me as previously agreed.”

  “Maddox wasn’t the first collector to change his mind.”

  “Thanks to your father.”

  “It was thanks to my father that you even met Maddox. The fact that your sale didn’t go through had nothing to do with us.”

  Denford dignified this excuse with no more than a curl of his lip. This final episode in the decline and fall of their friendship was the major sticking point in Damian’s current mission. The irony that he was supposed to persuade Julian to sell a collection of pictures had laid heavily on his mind and—a little—on his conscience. He knew what a setback the failure of the Maddox purchase had dealt Julian’s fledgling career.

  “I’d raised the money and you knew how hard that was for me,” Denford said. “Control of such a prime group of Masters would have established my reputation and let me open my own gallery to rival Bridges. Instead I had years more of begging and contriving.”

  “And now you are a duke. Being in trade is bad enough but at least buying and selling pictures is an acceptable occupation for a gentleman. Good God! You should be grateful now you never opened a shop.”

  “The title is empty since I have come into precious little of the fortune as yet. A lot of nonsense about what gentlemen should or should not do troubles me not a whit. I’ve never given a damn what anyone thinks of me or of what I do.”

  Damian nursed his brandy and eyed his opponent with an air of calm that he hoped equaled Julian’s. The anger and bitterness into which their friendship had dissolved lingered under the surface, but neither let it show. He had this sudden urge to grab the Duke of Denford by the throat and strangle him with his affected black neckcloth until those blue eyes betrayed . . . something.

  So he didn’t give a damn? Well, he should. Julian should care about what he’d done to Damian seven years ago. He should care about what he was doing to him now. He had no business seducing another man’s wife in retaliation for what was the merest pinprick compared to the blow Damian had suffered. He was going to pay Julian back, once he’d concluded his current, infuriating mission.

  “I shouldn’t have gloated over the Maddox business,” he said, managing not to choke. “I’m sorry for it now. But there was a lot of bad blood between us.”

  “Blood that you were the first to spill.”

  Although he disputed that assessment, Damian let it pass. “Water under the bridge.”

  “By all means let it flow away. Then perhaps you can tell me what you want.”

  “The Falleron collection. Do you know where it is? I don’t expect you to consider the importance of the Alt-Brandenburg alliance, but there’s a fortune in this for you. The Foreign Office is prepared to sweeten the prince’s offer with monies from the secret funds.”

  Julian’s scorn would have cut through glass. “Prince Heinrich is a tasteless oaf. I wouldn’t sell masterpieces to such a boor.”

  “I didn’t know you were acquainted with him.”

  “I attended a reception at his palace in ’97. He was surrounded by blowsy mistresses and smelly dogs to whom he spared what scraps of food from the table he did not consume himself. The very idea of his laying fat, lustful fingers on the exquisite flesh of a Raphael Madonna is enough to turn my stomach.”

  “Do you expect me to believe you care whom you sell to, as long as the price is right?”

  “You disappoint me, Damian. You used not to be so coarse.”

  That rankled. He had been in the habit for so long of thinking of Julian as a heartless, mercenary creature who acted only in his own interest. And while he still believed it, he also remembered Julian’s genuine passion for great works of art. Somehow he felt his actions now—his attempt to manipulate Denford to his will—had a grubbiness about them.

  But it wasn’t just his own future in the government that was at stake. It was the good of the nation.

  “So you admit that you have the collection?”

  “I admit nothing.”

  And yet he had referred to a Raphael Madonna, and the Marquis de Falleron had possessed a famous one. It didn’t prove that Denford owned the collection, but Damian was beginning to be convinced that he did. He felt the pricking under the skin that told him he was on the right scent.

  He settled back in his chair, sipped his brandy, and smiled faintly. “I remember your excitement that evening at the Hôtel Falleron. You’re the expert, but I believe it is unusual for a collection of that size and importance to vanish. Did you ever hear rumors of what became of them?”

  “Rumors are cheap.”

  He surveyed Julian through narrowed eyes. The duke was preternaturally still, his face set in stone like a medieval saint. “You were in Paris when the Terror began. I believe the marquis and his family were early victims of Madame Guillotine.”

  Had Damian not been looking he wouldn’t have spotted the infinitesimal twitch at the side of the twisted mouth, the momentary cloud in the clear blue eyes. “I left soon afterward and never knew what happened.”

  Soon after what? His wording seemed odd. Before Damian could press, Julian struck back. “I left France and returned to ‘perfidious Albion.’ You went into the right profession, Windermere.”

  Damian didn’t make the mistake of not taking the insult personally. French diplomats had long accused their British counterparts of being “perfidious” in their promises. Julian was referring
to what he’d always claimed was Damian’s betrayal.

  “What some call perfidy, others regard as looking after the interests of the country.”

  Denford smiled unpleasantly. “Patriotism? On that topic I agree with Dr. Johnson. When you rejected art for the grubby contrivances of government, you fell among scoundrels.”

  “Really? I thought I was doing the opposite. Let’s not talk about old rivalries, however.” He’d gathered useful information and would like to probe for more.

  “Not old ones, no.” Julian glanced over at Cynthia, who was laughing at some idiocy of Bream’s and looked carefree and lovely. “Cynthia looks ravishing tonight.”

  The demands of diplomacy, perfidious or otherwise, were tossed aside. Sometimes plain speaking was called for. “Leave my wife out of this. Leave her alone.” His jaw clenched.

  “As you have?” Julian jeered.

  “I am home now.”

  “For how long? Will you take her with you next time you are called away on an urgent diplomatic mission?” He managed to make service to the nation sound self-serving and seedy, rather like a visit to a brothel.

  “That’s none of your affair. You should not have involved an innocent like Cynthia in our old quarrel.”

  “You believe I am using her for my own ends?”

  “Why else would you be chasing after her?” He carefully kept from letting out that he knew the pursuit had been successful.

  “You have a poor opinion of your own bride.”

  Again Damian felt shabby. And stupid. For it was rapidly bearing in on him that his lady was no longer the dull little provincial he’d married, if she ever had been. Could Julian actually be in love with her?

  A well-bred but distinct commotion arose at the card table.

  “Upon my soul,” Cousin George said. “I do believe you revoked, sir.” Apparently, Bream, not content with trumping his partner’s winners, had done the same to his opponent’s when he had no right. “You trumped my king of hearts when you still had a small heart in your hand.”

  “Really,” Bream said vaguely. “I thought hearts were trumps.”

  “Even if they were, you still have to follow suit.”

  “I always forget.”

  Cynthia put down her cards and stood up. “Let me ring for the tea tray. Will you tally the score, Cousin George? Setting aside the last hand when Oliver made the mistake, I believe you are a handy winner. We were quite outplayed. Dear Cousin Louisa, you must be parched.”

  The contretemps cleaned up and brushed aside, she walked over to the bellpull, a few feet from Damian’s chair.

  “Has my lord been entertaining you, Julian?” She gave Denford a sideways glance that Damian interpreted as coy.

  “Windermere and I have discovered a surprising amount to talk about after all these years.”

  “It’s odd that I am better acquainted with you than with my husband. And you know him better than I do.”

  “How piquant that I should be what you two have in common. I shall have to bring you together.”

  “We can share you.”

  Damian was unable to believe what he was hearing. He had of course heard of such “sharing” arrangements, but he’d never fancied the idea himself. Even when he and Julian had been close, they’d never pursued that particular vice. As far as he knew, a certain Venetian courtesan was the only woman they had both bedded, but certainly not at the same time.

  Except she wasn’t the only one. There was Cynthia too, his faithless wife. Disguising his shock, he stared at her through narrowed eyes. She smiled at him, apparently without guile, then turned to Denford. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought her mouth widened a little when she regarded her lover. And yet he could swear there was nothing lascivious in either look. He was having a hard time imagining this angelic, golden woman in sweaty congress with even one man, let alone two at once.

  Julian on the other hand looked amused. “I don’t think I would like you to share me with anyone,” he said. “I’d rather have you to myself.”

  Cynthia blushed, the color making her appear prettier than ever. “That was a goosish thing for me to say. I only meant that I am glad . . .” She trailed off, flustered. “I am glad to see you mending your past differences.” She turned to Damian. “You must know, my lord, that without Denford and other friends I would have been uncommonly lonely during your absence.”

  He flinched at the reproach in her clear blue eyes. “I am sorry for that, my lady. I heeded the call of duty. My work will always be important to me, but I see that it is time for me to tend to my domestic affairs as well as foreign ones.”

  He had the urge to toss Denford out of the house forever, and turn his efforts to mending fences with his wife. He had no hesitation now about where to apportion blame for her straying. She was an innocent lamb in the jaws of a wolf.

  Cynthia enjoyed the bedtime ritual of brushing her hair because she remembered her mama doing it for her. Even after she married and acquired the services of a personal maid, she continued to do it herself. Not in a melancholy way; her childhood had been a happy one. She preferred to dwell on past happiness rather than its premature loss.

  Tonight the probable arrival of her husband drove away memories of life in the curate’s cottage. She prepared for the event by twisting her hair into a severe plait and donning her sturdiest winter nightgown, a voluminous flannel garment suitable for unheated bedchambers. She climbed into her side of the bed feeling overly warm.

  Windermere, displaying further evidence of a flamboyant taste in nightwear that didn’t match his sober daytime attire, was resplendent in crimson velvet with gold frogging. She forbore from comment, even when he discarded the robe to reveal—thank heavens—a shirt reaching almost to his knees. Undistracted by more interesting parts of his anatomy, she allowed herself to note that he had shapely calves and ankles and long, elegant feet lightly dusted with dark hair. The room suddenly seemed stifling.

  “I’m sorry about your mattress, my lord,” she said, pushing aside a couple of blankets. “The man was unable to come in and restuff it today. The housekeeper tells me that she needs more notice. She apologizes for not being aware of your stuffing preferences. The mattress on the master bed was, she says, stuffed according to the common taste.”

  “I have uncommon tastes, I fear. I prefer a looser stuffing. No matter. When the—er—mattress stuffer can get here is time enough. I am quite comfortable in your bed.”

  “Are you sure my stuffing isn’t too tight for you?”

  “Thank you, but I found it quite comfortable, at least on the right side of the bed. If I find the other side isn’t loose enough I shall ask you to switch places with me again.” He climbed into bed.

  Not sure why the whole conversation seemed vaguely indecent, Cynthia glanced sideways to find him looking disgustingly at ease and shockingly handsome. If the marriage had turned out the way she’d naïvely hoped, what would they be doing now? That, she supposed, but was that all? Would not a husband and wife on good terms, who had just entertained guests, discuss the evening? That with Windermere had been disappointing, but a conversation appealed.

  “I enjoyed meeting your cousins,” she said.

  “Did you? I always thought them a dull pair.”

  “I understand he is your second cousin.”

  “My father had only sisters, which is why George is next in line for the earldom.”

  She felt on treacherous ground here. Having a discussion that touched on begetting an heir in the very place that heirs were commonly begotten seemed fraught with peril. “He seems a very worthy man.”

  “There’s not an ounce of harm in George.” She waited nervously for him to say something about the topic that hung over her like a thundercloud. When once again he said nothing, she wondered if her uncle had been wrong when he said Windermere was desperate for a son. He didn’t behave like a man intent on procreation.

  “You had no brothers, and I never knew you had a sister either until the
steward at Beaulieu told me. I don’t know if she was older or younger.”

  “Amelia? Did I never mention her?”

  “You told me very little at Beaulieu, and most of that in French.”

  “We were twins.”

  Her heart caught. “As an only child I have no experience of such a relationship, but it seems to me that twins must be especially close.” She touched his arm timidly. “Will you tell me about her?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Everything! she wanted to cry, but his expression and voice were distant and bleak, and she had to draw him in gently, not drive him away.

  “Did you look alike?”

  “People said so. Our coloring was the same but I couldn’t see the resemblance myself. She was just Amelia to me.”

  “Do you have a portrait of her? I should like to see it.”

  She held her breath, waiting for him to deny her request, or retreat into his shell of reserve. Without saying a word he rose and went through to the earl’s chamber. Her heart almost burst with relief when he returned, bearing an oval miniature in a pearl-encrusted frame.

  “Here.”

  She looked at her husband, who was returning to bed, and back at the portrait, comparing points of similarity, including the turned-up edges of the mouth. There could be no question of their relationship. Amelia was a feminine version of her twin, and even as a young girl gave promise of ravishing beauty. “Those who said you looked alike were right. I like her smile. She looks humorous.”

  “She was always laughing, like my mother.”

  “And your father?”

  “He was more serious.”

  “Like you.”

  “When I was with Mama and Amelia I laughed.”

  Cynthia’s attention was drawn to the technique of the portrait. “It’s painted on ivory, isn’t it? The creamy surface lends a lovely glow to the colors. Who was the artist?”

  “My mother.”

  “Truly?” She looked closer, running a fingertip around the pearl border. “She had a real talent!”

  “Painting was her passion. She took lessons from excellent masters.”