Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘I think you are being too modest; driving a curricle and pair is not exactly easy. Though I admit, I can’t see you in a yellow-and-blue-striped waistcoat, let alone a spotted cravat.’

  ‘God, no, no more can I. How do you know what they wear?’

  ‘Jeremy was a member,’ Deborah said shortly. ‘Horses were his greatest passion. It was one of the few things we had in common.’ She chewed her bottom lip. ‘Actually, it might have been the only one.’

  She lapsed into silence and the haunted look was back in her eyes and her complexion wan. Compassion and anger kept Elliot quiet, though his grip on the reins tightened enough to make his horses aware of it. Their steps got out of kilter and it took him a few moments to rectify the problem; when he next looked at Deborah, her eyes had drifted closed.

  * * *

  They remained so until he pulled in to courtyard of the Old Bell, when she blinked and looked about her in surprise. ‘Are we here already?’ She descended shakily, glad of Elliot’s arm as his curricle was led efficiently off over the cobbles to the stables.

  The inn was large, the original tavern having been much altered, with a two-storey extension built on to the original gable wall, and another, three-storey building at right angles to this, the whole joined on the first floor by a precarious set of galleries.

  Elliot steered Deborah to the open door of the main building, where the landlord, in pristine white apron, was waiting for them. ‘A private parlour, and the lady will wish to freshen up,’ he said. ‘Dinner as soon as you can bring it.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. You have timed your visit well, if I may say so; you’ve just missed the Bristol mail. I have an excellent parlour at the back, away from the noise of the tap room.’ The landlord snapped his fingers and ordered a maid to take madam upstairs, and to fetch a jug of hot water, then led Elliot through to a small parlour where a fire was already burning.

  Fifteen minutes later, Deborah joined him. The table was already set with pewter plates, a jug of claret and a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. ‘I feel much better, but you’re right, I am hungry.’

  ‘There’s a white soup, a haunch of venison which I thought you’d prefer to mutton stew, but I wasn’t sure, so I ordered the carp in case you fancied fish. There’s asparagus and peas, too, and some mushroom fritters. They don’t run to much in the way of dessert, but there is a Stilton which the landlord assures me is fine, and—’

  ‘Stop,’ Deborah said, laughing, ‘you are not feeding an army now. It sounds lovely, Elliot, much better than bread and mousetrap, which is all that I have in my own kitchen,’ she added, touched by the care he had taken. ‘My mouth is already watering.’

  She sat down at the table and took a sip of the wine. The food was excellent and Elliot an attentive host, putting the most succulent morsels on her plate, distracting her with witty anecdotes of make-do meals he had eaten on the campaign trail, so that she partook of every dish and ate far more than she normally would have.

  The wheel of Stilton with quince jelly, was served by their host along with a fine port, which Deborah declined. Outside, dusk had fallen. As the door closed behind the landlord, the sound of a horn could be heard, the answering clatter of clogs on wooden boards rushing to the courtyard as a stage coach pulled in.

  ‘Thank you,’ Deborah said with a contented sigh. ‘That was quite delicious.’ The maid who cleared the table had lit the candles. Their reflections flickered in the bevelled glass of the window beneath which the table was set. It was an intimate scene. Domestic.

  She and Jeremy had never sat together thus, so comfortably together. The arrival of the port was the signal for Deborah to leave the table, even when they were alone. She propped her chin on her hands, drowsy with the heat and the food and the wine. ‘At Kinsail Manor, the dining table seats twenty-four,’ she said, half to herself. ‘It is so old there are no leafs to be removed and Jeremy was so punctilious about etiquette, he insisted that we sat at opposite ends, even when we were alone. I’d forgotten that. I’d forgotten how fond of pomp and ceremony he was. There was an epergne, a hideous thing, some sort of heirloom, that sat in the middle of the table which made conversation absolutely impossible. I had it removed to a side table once, but Jeremy had it moved back. He couldn’t bear anything to be changed in his precious Manor, which was strange, considering how happy he seemed to be to let the place go to rack and ruin. I wondered, after he died, if it was deliberate, you know? A sort of self-inflicted punishment. He let himself go to rack and ruin, too.’

  Her eyes were unfocused, lost in the past, but for the first time since he had known her, she seemed contemplative rather than troubled by what she saw. Elliot sipped his port, watching the emotions flitting over her face, almost afraid to move lest he break the mood.

  Deborah began to cut the quince jelly which lay untouched on her plate into little cubes, using her left hand to hold the knife, resting her cheek on the other. ‘He was indifferent to what we ate, too, provided it was served on the appropriate service with appropriate aplomb. The kitchens at Kinsail Manor are about as far from the dining room as it is possible to be, so whatever we had, it was nearly always cold. I tried to persuade him to have a new kitchen built, but the expense was prohibitive, he said. I suggested we move the dining chamber closer to the kitchen.’ She laughed. ‘You’d think I’d suggested that I be allowed to cast a vote in an election. He was appalled.’ She put her knife down, looking in surprise at the quivering mass of quince she had cut. Her mouth drooped. ‘Poor Jeremy. The Manor, the title—they meant so much to him. I wonder how different things would have been, if he’d had an heir.’

  She sat up, suddenly conscious of the intensity of Elliot’s gaze. He had what she called his fierce look. ‘I am become maudlin,’ she said, finishing the last of her wine. ‘I think it is time I went home.’

  ‘You would have liked children?’ Elliot stayed her hand when she would have risen from the table.

  ‘One cannot always have what one would like,’ Deborah said lightly, though the lump rose in her throat all the same. She pushed back her chair and busied herself with putting on her bonnet, collecting her gloves and shawl.

  ‘Tomorrow, if you wish, I can take you back to Spitalfields to talk to Lyle.’

  ‘There is no need, I am sure I can get a hackney to take me.’

  ‘You don’t need to prove your independence to me. And before you say it, you’re not beholden either. Our cause is a joint one, I thought we agreed?’

  She opened her mouth to protest, but then thought the better of it and laughed. ‘I’m not sure I like your ability to read my mind.’

  ‘I wish I could read it more often.’

  His smile was no more than a shadow, a sensuous tilt of his lips, which made her toes curl, her skin flush. Her own was uncertain. She wished she really could read his mind. Did he want to kiss her?

  She had her answer when his lips claimed hers. It was the softest of kisses. One of his kisses-for-no-other-purpose-than-kissing kisses. Gentle. Sweet. And over, before it could become more. Elliot straightened her shawl, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her out into the bustling night.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Well?’ Deborah hovered in the open doorway. ‘Did you read it, or should I go out again? Only if I walk around the square another time your neighbours will think I’m up to something.’

  Elliot got up from the seat at her desk and untangled her gloves from her fingers. She was pale, there were circles under her eyes again, testament to the long nights she’d spent with her pen. ‘You can stay. I’ve finished it.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sank down suddenly into her chair by the hearth, her knees turned to jelly. She felt sick. She pressed her hands together tight to stop them from shaking. ‘And?’ Her voice was no more than a whisper.

  Elliot sat down opposite, stretching his legs out in front of him. He had been planning on teasing her, but he was no proof against that anxious white face. ‘And, I think it’s ab
solutely brilliant,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘You’re not just saying that because you don’t want to offend me?’

  ‘Deborah, it’s wonderful. Truly. It’s funny and moving and it’s angry and it’s tragic.’

  ‘And Henry?’

  Elliot swallowed hard. ‘It was difficult to read. You’ve captured him so well.’

  Deborah got up and caught his hand against her cheek, kneeling at his feet. ‘I’m so glad. I wanted so much to get him right.’

  ‘Well, you did.’ They stayed in silence for a few moments, Elliot’s hand resting on her head. ‘The guilt of the survivor—is that what you think I suffer from?’

  His eyes were dark, the lines around them etched deep with his frown. Deborah smoothed the scar on his brow. ‘Not just you,’ she said carefully. ‘Almost every man I spoke to felt it to a degree, but I think you suffer from it more because you came through unharmed. You have no scars to show, save these little ones.’ She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the other scar, just below his hairline. ‘But it doesn’t mean you don’t have other scars, which no one can see.’

  Except you. The words hung in the air between them, unsaid. These last few weeks had gone by so quickly, he hadn’t noticed how far he had dropped his guard, had been aware only that in Deborah’s company he could speak his mind without thinking, without worrying that she would be shocked, or wouldn’t understand.

  ‘I can change it if it makes you feel uncomfortable,’ Deborah said, displaying her ability to read his mind yet again. ‘It’s not as if Henry’s friend is an accurate portrait of you, and it’s only a draft. I don’t want to upset you.’

  Elliot smiled at her. He was always smiling at her. ‘No. It was—difficult, but it’s too good to change. Actually it’s more than good, moving without being mawkish. And the battle scenes, so real without being bloodthirsty. You have a great talent.’

  Deborah blushed with pleasure. ‘Thank you.’ She got to her feet, and paced over to the window. Her eyes were bright when she turned back to him. ‘I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you like it. Are you sure you do?’

  Elliot laughed. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately, too. ‘It’s perfect, I assure you. I hadn’t realised you’d be finished so soon.’

  ‘Well, as I said, it’s only a draft, but the sooner the better, surely? I know that there’s no immediate worry about funding for the dispensary, for Captain Symington told me that he had several new benefactors to add to the list.’

  Deborah arranged her pens in a line on the blotter, her brows drawn together in a deep frown. Though she wanted to tell him, confidences still came so hard to her.

  ‘What is it?’ Elliot asked.

  ‘I’ve something I want to tell you.’

  ‘And you’re not sure how to say it.’ He led her over to the seat beside the fire. ‘You know me well enough by now, surely? Just say it.’

  Deborah smiled faintly. ‘It’s important. To me, anyway.’ She plucked at a loose thread on the arm of her chair with her left hand. It came away in her fingers, leaving a tiny hole in the worn damask.

  ‘You’ve taken off your wedding ring.’

  Deborah examined the dent in her finger. The skin was pale, softer than the rest. ‘Yesterday. I shall return it to Jacob. It’s an heirloom. The only thing I have left of Jeremy’s. Jacob will be relieved to have it back, though I doubt his wife will be particularly eager to wear it,’ she said drily.

  ‘What made you do it?’ Elliot asked, realising as he did so how much he’d disliked that ring.

  Deborah began to worry at another loose thread. ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you. Writing Henry’s story has been a very emotional experience for me. Cathartic, I suppose. When I finished the draft, I knew it was good. Much better than anything I’ve written before. All that emotion. It made me realise how much was missing from my books.’ She gave him a strange little smile. ‘I appreciate that you haven’t asked about them, I know you must have been curious.’

  Elliot thought of the brown-paper parcel of books, still neatly wrapped, still sitting on the table by his bedside. ‘Curious enough to obtain some copies for myself.’

  Deborah’s jaw dropped. ‘You knew? How did you—did you spy on me? Have you read them?’

  Elliot grinned. ‘I have my sources. Of course I didn’t spy on you, I just made enquiries. I’ve had them for weeks, but I haven’t read them, I promise. I was waiting for you to tell me.’

  ‘Good grief, how very self-restrained of you.’

  Elliot gave a crack of laughter. ‘Deborah, our entire relationship has been an exercise of remarkable self-restraint as far as I’m concerned. You know that.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. So many times, over these last weeks, a touch, a glance, a brush of lips to cheek, one of those kisses-for-kisses’-sake kisses could have led to more. She knew he wanted her. She knew, too, that he was waiting for some sort of signal from her. Time and again, her desire for him led her to the edge, but her fear of failure kept her teetering there. At times, just looking at him made the muscles in her belly clench and perspiration break out in the small of her back. The silence between them was becoming charged. Deborah returned to her excavation of the arm of the chair. ‘I was telling you about my writing.’

  Elliot blinked, dragging his mind away from the delightful visions of Deborah naked that it conjured up so easily. ‘Yes. So you were. Go on.’

  Deborah pulled out another thread. It was longer than the first. She began to twine it round her fingers. ‘You know, we both have a secret other, you and I. You have the Peacock and I have—I have Bella Donna.’

  ‘Bella Donna?’

  ‘That’s the name of my heroine. It’s a joke, really—you know, Deadly Nightshade. Beautiful and toxic. According to Mr Freyworth, my publisher, she is notorious.’

  ‘You are the author of the Bella Donna books?’

  ‘You’ve heard of them?’

  ‘I’ve read one. Lizzie lent it to me.’

  ‘Your sister, Lizzie?’ Deborah squeaked in horror.

  Elliot laughed. ‘She is a great admirer of yours—though her husband, apparently, is not.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I could not imagine you writing romances along the lines of Mrs Burney’s, but I did not think your books were the kind that women hid from their husbands.’

  ‘And husbands from their wives, if I am to believe Mr Freyworth,’ Deborah said drily. ‘Which one did you read? Did you like it?’

  ‘Hemlock. I did like it. It was clever and funny, though the humour was very dark.’ Elliot uncrossed his ankles and sat up, his expression quite bemused. ‘The main thing I liked about it was that it was so subversive. Your Bella is voluptuous, but quite vicious—she really does enjoy humiliating her victims. What on earth made you think of such a female?’

  Deborah had wound the thread so tight around her fingers that it was painful. ‘Bella Donna is everything I am not, you see,’ she said. ‘No man can resist her and she is determined to live her life in her own way, even if she has to be cruel. She doesn’t care who gets hurt as long as she gets what she wants, but she’s not a hard-nosed harlot. She’s like a diamond—she glitters and she’s infinitely desirable, but she’s hard, no one can hurt her. She’s invincible.’

  ‘And immensely popular, according to my sister.’

  ‘Even more popular, thanks to the Peacock, if Mr Freyworth is to be believed.’

  Elliot grinned. ‘I wonder what Lizzie would make of that?’

  ‘Elliot! You would not…’

  ‘God, no, that would set the cat among the pigeons. Alex is already—but I told you that.’

  ‘You’re not planning another break-in, are you? Ever since you told me about your brother-in-law’s suspicions, I’ve been worried. I couldn’t bear you to be caught.’

  ‘I still have several names on my list.’ Elliot frowned. He hadn’t actually thought much about the Peacock at all in the last few weeks. ‘There is no real risk,
Alex won’t say anything. You worry too much.’

  ‘Any you don’t worry at all!’ Deborah exclaimed. ‘It’s dangerous, Elliot.’

  ‘This, coming from you, my two-time aider and abettor,’ he teased. ‘Wasn’t it you who told me that the Peacock was infallible?’

  ‘It’s not a laughing matter.’

  ‘I won’t tell you anything, then you won’t have sleepless nights.’

  ‘Why should it bother me?’ Deborah asked caustically. ‘It’s not my neck that will be stretched.’

  ‘I’m hoping that it won’t be mine, either.’

  ‘Are you sure about that? You told me once that you didn’t care.’

  He had. And he didn’t. Then. And now? ‘We were talking about you, not me,’ Elliot said, mentally shrugging aside the issue of whether or not he had changed. ‘Bella Donna, not the Peacock. What made you think of her? When did you start writing?’

  Deborah made a face. ‘It was at a—a low point in my marriage. There was—I knew we could not—that Jeremy and I—I knew it was over, even though he would not consider a separation. I still don’t understand why he wouldn’t. The Kinsail name, I suppose.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Deborah wrapped her arms around herself. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It obviously does,’ Elliot said grimly.

  She shook her head. ‘What matters is that it made me fight back—through Bella. She was my—my secret weapon. While Bella wreaked revenge, I could just about bear the mess I had made of my life.’ Realising that her nails were digging into her skin through her gown, Deborah forced herself to uncross her arms. ‘It’s not a mess now,’ she said awkwardly. ‘That’s why I’m telling you. To thank you. Bella helped me survive the last years of my marriage, but lately—working with you, writing Henry’s story—I’ve realised how much I’ve been living through her, hiding behind her. She’s not protecting me any more, she’s holding me back, and you’ve helped me realise that. I’ve decided to kill her off.’ She smiled wanly. ‘I’ve promised Mr Freyworth another book in payment for publishing Henry’s story. He won’t be too pleased when he discovers that it is Bella’s final curtain.’