Beloved

by Stella Cameron

  “I hardly—”

  “We’ll take pleasure in decking her out, won’t we, Pom? My boy will supervise that aspect of things himself.” A huge wink eclipsed one reddened eye. “Of course, when he’s got the unwrapped material in front of him, so to speak, he may forget to wrap it up again in time to go anywhere, what?” Laughter shook Wokingham’s belly.

  Deep loathing made Struan’s legs weak. It made his temper roar. “I think this meeting is over,” he said carefully. The less fuss he made, the less chance there was that Justine or Ella would hear and be exposed to this display. “I’ll summon my butler to show you out.”

  “Out?” Wokingham struggled to his feet. “What the bloody hell do you mean by that, m’boy? Out? We’re to be relatives. A man doesn’t show his relatives out before they’re ready to go.”

  “This man shows out whomever he pleases, whenever he pleases.”

  Pomeroy strolled closer to Struan. “Evidently you don’t understand. I’ve seen what I want and I intend to get it. For the first time in my life I want to make a slut into an honest woman. I haven’t been ready until now.”

  Struan could not believe he had heard correctly. “Been too young until now,” Wokingham said, apparently oblivious to his son’s outright insult to a young female who was beyond reproach. “With his fortieth birthday behind him, he recognizes it’s time to produce some offspring. Might as well choose a pair of thighs that promise endless entertainment in the process, what? To say nothing of the chit’s other areas of possibility. Youth, succulent little tits—and an arse to match, I’ll wager.” The man finished with his tongue held between his teeth.

  One more second and Struan would call them out—both of them. To do so would be more than they deserved. One could not deal in matters of honor with men who had no honor. “Out,” he told them succinctly. “Never return. Put your bauble back in your pocket, sir, and go. How dare you suggest that an innocent creature such as Ella is a slut? Out!”

  Pomeroy closed the ring box and tossed it casually upon the desk. “We’re offering to take her off your hands and pay a fair price for the goods. With certain considerations in the way of a dowry, of course.”

  “Out!”

  “After all,” Pomeroy remarked, “it isn’t as if she’s got a solid pedigree. You know what we mean.”

  Cold chased the heat from Struan’s skin. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, watching their reactions with great care. “And neither, I’ll wager, do you. This entire incident is an insult to the Rossmaras and it will not be forgotten.”

  Wokingham went to his son’s side. Any trace of humor had disappeared from his face. “Insult? When did the truth become insulting? We’re offering to take the female off your hands. Might not be so easily accomplished with any other eligible male—not under the circumstances. I’m sure you understand.”

  Struan forced his hands to remain relaxed. “Why don’t you explain this to me?”

  “Oh”—Pomeroy gestured loosely with a pale hand— “enough said, really, don’t y’think? After all, we’re all gentlemen here. Certainly wouldn’t want to speak aloud of a ruinous past in one so physically titillatin’ as Ella, would we?”

  They knew something. Perhaps not everything, but something. Struan had convinced himself that a girl seen fleetingly in a certain setting when she was not even sixteen, was unlikely to be recalled in entirely different circumstances more than four years later. And she had lived a sheltered life ever since. She was not known in Society.

  “Got your attention, have we?” Wokingham asked fatuously.

  The man’s satisfaction inflamed Struan. “Your innuendos make no sense, but they do make it necessary for me to issue a warning to both of you. I am tempted to call you out. Push me further and the temptation will become irresistible.”

  Pomeroy smiled—an exceedingly unpleasant sight. “Creditable attempt, Hunsingore. Most might cringe and run away—assume they were mistaken. Unfortunately for you, we know we are not mistaken. Oh, have no fear, our intelligence was gained in the most discreet manner. Does the term ‘lady tailor’ mean something to you?”

  Wokingham giggled and hitched at the crotch of his trousers. “A certain innovative brothel, eh, Hunsingore. Expert work by ladies accomplished in satisfying gentlemen of any size—or taste?” He giggled again. “And entertainments not to be missed, eh?”

  Restraint cost Struan everything now. Ella’s only hope rested with absolute denial of her past. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, contriving to appear puzzled. “What could this establishment possibly have to do with my daughter?”

  He saw the faintest uncertainty in Wokingham’s eyes and pressed on. “I may manage to forget this incident. If you leave at once and never mention it again.”

  “You deny that Ella has a questionable past?” All expression had deserted Pomeroy’s ferretlike features.

  “Absolutely. You are wrong in your assumptions.”

  “Really? I wonder if you understand the word wrong.” Pomeroy stroked carvings along the edge of the desk.

  Damn, he must be circumspect. He must exercise more control than should be required of any reasonable man.

  “She isn’t your daughter, Lord Hunsingore, is she? Not really your daughter.”

  His heart thudded. If they mentioned that he had first seen Ella at a brothel auction where she’d been displayed—all but naked—as a virginal prize for the highest bidder, he’d have no defense but outraged denial. Then he’d have to throw them out himself. But what then? He couldn’t risk drawing the issue into the cruel light of the ton’s avaricious on dit mill.

  Lies were his only refuge, Ella’s only refuge. “Ella and her brother were the children of a gentleman farmer and his wife. Their holding marched with an estate I once owned in Dorset. They both died of cholera. A terrible thing. Ella and Max were completely alone.”

  Wokingham and Pomeroy said nothing. They exchanged a sickeningly knowing glance and returned their scrutiny to his face.

  “Every penny of the parents’ estate went to pay debts. There were no relatives. I decided to care for the children myself. Then my dear wife and I adopted them. So you are misinformed, you see. I would have her ladyship confirm this, but to as much as know there had been any slur against Ella would quite undo Justine. Naturally, and appropriately, we consider Ella and Max as much our children as the two who are of our own blood. I’m sure you will agree that you have been misled—and that you will understand my horror at your suggestion.”

  One side of Pomeroy’s mouth jerked upward. “So you say.” He and his father nodded. “Very likely. And very admirable on the part of you and your lady, I must say.”

  “Very admirable,” Wokingham echoed.

  Pomeroy picked up the velvet box, opened it, and removed the ring. This he set on the mahogany sheen of the desk. “Nevertheless, such a girl would do well to marry into a fine family like the Wokinghams, don’t you think? Marry and be tucked safely away from harm—from harmful tongues.”

  Wokingham shook his head and made a smacking sound with his lips. “Sad what some girls have to go through. Gossip can be such a destructive thing. Can finish ’em, can’t it? But my Pom wants her regardless, don’t you, Pom?”

  Pomeroy raised his brows in assent.

  Keeping his steps measured, Struan went to the fireplace and pulled the cord to summon Crabley. The only offense in this matter would be solid defense, and that defense would consist of the denial of any rumor these insects attempted to introduce.

  “No need to bother the flunky,” Wokingham said. “We’ll see ourselves out. Take the ring, Pom. You can give it to her yourself and enjoy her gratitude.” His giggle wrung out Struan’s stomach.

  “I’ll look forward to that moment,” Pomeroy said. “It’s a pity you did not see fit to simplify this transaction, my lord.”

  “We will not speak of this again,” Struan said. Wokingham and his appalling son approached the door. “My Pom wants her,” Wok
ingham said, his eyes red slits. “What Pom wants, he gets. I always make certain of that. You have nothing to fear. Our discretion is assured. But we will stay in touch.”

  “I don’t think so,” Struan said as Crabley appeared.

  Pomeroy bowed slightly and said, “You may depend upon it.”

  Chapter Four

  “I have no stomach for this.” Saber stepped deeper into the shadows of the gallery above the Eagletons’ great hall.

  Devlin North rested a hip on the carved stone balustrade. “You wish to be here. You do not wish to be here,” he said in the damnable neutral tones he affected whenever he delivered particularly irritating announcements. “You wish to reenter society at last. You do not wish to reenter society at all—ever. You wish to see her. You do not—”

  “I do not wish to listen to your goading twaddle, North. I asked you to accompany me here in case I decide to carry out a certain mission. Nothing more.”

  Devlin turned his handsome face away and crossed his arms. “And for this I got out of a charmingly warm bed—and certain other charmingly warm places.”

  “I have always detested London in the Season,” Saber said darkly, refusing to discuss Devlin’s latest dalliances. “I detest the games one is supposed to play.”

  “Seems to me you’ve managed to avoid London in almost all seasons, old chap. We both know you wouldn’t be here now if you could stay away from—”

  “Margot said she’d been invited.”

  Devlin laughed shortly. “Determined not to confess the truth, are we? Very well. Yes, Margot was invited. A relative of hers was acquainted with the Earl of Eagleton’s father.”

  “She probably won’t come.”

  “Probably not,” Devlin agreed. “I’m not particularly enjoyin’ the evenin’ myself, old chap. Lookin’ down on the festivities has never been my idea of a scintillatin’ experience. Prefer to be in the thick of it, so t’speak.”

  Saber didn’t bother to disguise his disdain. “In the thick of a gaggle of warbling mamas and their twittering, downy chicks, you mean? To say nothing of rubbing shoulders with the chicks’ bored papas, and an assortment of posturing, so-called eligible males.”

  “I think it is you who posture,” Devlin said softly.

  There was no answer to that, none that would please Saber. Devlin looked downward past a ring of rich banners swaying gently above the colorful scene in the hall below. “You came because you want to see her,” he told Saber. “We don’t have need to speak her name aloud, do we? And there must be some other reason that has compelled you here, but which you are not telling me. No matter. You may hold your little secrets.”

  His little secrets? His entire life was a secret now, a sick, fearsome secret. It must remain so. But Ella had spoken of his promise to come to her aid if ever she needed him. There would be no peace for him until he proved to her that he could not fulfill his promise because he was a changed man.

  “Do you know what they say of you here in London?” Saber frowned at Devlin. “No doubt you will tell me.”

  “They say that you and Margot are lovers, that you are her protector. Suggestions are made that the mysterious Earl of Avenall has unusual sexual preferences and that you pay Countess Perruche well to fulfill them.”

  “Who are these chatterers to whom you refer?” He was aware that there was some talk, of course, but not that he’d become of any great interest to the ton.

  “They are those who matter, Saber. You know how perverse our incestuous little circle of the Blessed is. The Upper-ofthe-Upper feeds upon morsels such as a beautiful, widowed countess who spends large amounts of time with a reclusive earl—alone—in his house.”

  “Let them feed.”

  Devlin shrugged. “I’m simply warning you of what you will confront if you decide to proceed with this plan of yours to go about again.”

  “I never said I intended to go about again. One clandestine foray doesn’t mean I shall make a habit of frequenting such absurd affairs. Not that my presence will be missed.”

  “Au contraire. You have become the most whispered about rake in Town.”

  “Rake?” Saber asked, amazed. “In God’s name. They call me a rake?”

  “Indeed. The enigmatic Saber, Earl of Avenall. The man your downy chicks cheep about behind their fans—and exchange deliciously titillating speculations about behind their mamas’ backs. And their mamas are clucking about you, too, my friend. After all, you’re quite a catch, old man.”

  “How can I be—”

  “You are,” Devlin said, interrupting. “I would not tell you lies. The moment you put in your appearance, you will be on every husband-hunting parent’s list. At the top of their lists. So, be warned.”

  “And what of you?” Saber asked shortly. “Who doesn’t at least guess at the depth of your pockets? North of the shipping Norths, they must say. Man’s related to Midas. Wonder you’re still a free man.”

  Devlin raised his arms and stretched. “Let’s say I sympathize with you, old chap. Fighting ’em off left and right is such a bore—but I manage.”

  Saber could not help but be amused. “As you say. I’ve no doubt you manage very well. However, I shall leave the pleasure to you. There is only one thing I need to accomplish here—with your help. I want to meet with Ella. Alone.” He indicated the chamber behind him. “I will be in there.”

  Devlin dropped his arms. “I say. I’m hardly going to find it easy to get a gel to come upstairs with me on her own.”

  “You’ll find a way,” Saber told him. “Pull her aside and give her this.”

  “What is it?” Devlin asked, looking at the folded square of paper Saber had pushed into his hand.

  “Ella rather likes notes. She sends a great many of them. One more should cause her no particular surprise.”

  “But—”

  “Find a way to give her the note. Make a suitable opportunity for her to come to me. The matter will then be finished, I assure you. After tonight she will shudder at the very mention of my name.”

  Ella wished she could close her eyes and be somewhere far away when she opened them again. The handsome Earl of Eagleton and his lovely wife had greeted Mama and Papa as old friends. Lady Eagleton had treated Ella with particular kindness, but everything else about their elaborate soiree was horrid.

  Why couldn’t she go home to Scotland? Now that she knew she must give up on Saber, there was no point in remaining in London.

  Mama nudged her and murmured, “Chin up, Ella, please. And do smile. James and Celine will think you are not enjoying yourself.”

  “I’m not,” Ella whispered back vehemently. “They are a charming couple. They also don’t appear to notice anyone or anything but each other, so they won’t know if I’m miserable, will they?”

  “Ella.” Mama’s deep amber eyes clouded. “You should have warned me that you only agreed to come to London because you knew Saber was here. At least I could have been prepared. I could have attempted to coax him out of hiding.”

  Ella couldn’t bring herself to tell Mama the awful story of what had transpired between Saber and herself on her second visit to his home. “I doubt he’d pay any attention. He is selfish, and foolish to boot. He deserves to have his ears boxed.”

  “His ears boxed?” Mama giggled. “What an odd notion. Something tells me you’d better not try any such thing, miss.”

  “How can I? He continues to cower in his dark house.”

  Mama turned to Ella. “How do you know about his house—dark or otherwise?”

  Ella opened the white lace fan that matched her gown. “I was merely guessing,” she said. “His behavior at Sibley’s would make anyone think of dark places. I do not like this gown.”

  “I beg your pardon? You chose the gown.”

  Ella congratulated herself on a neat diversion. “I chose it to please convention. White makes me look sallow. I detest pale, lifeless colors. In fact, I detest dresses of any color. I shall not wear them again once I return ho
me—which will be very soon. May we go back to Hanover Square now, please?”

  Before Mama could respond, while her mouth was open to deliver what would undoubtedly have been a deservedly brusque retort, a narrow, brown-haired man thrust himself in front of Ella. He said, “Good evening, Miss Rossmara. I am Pomeroy Wokingham, a friend of your father’s.”

  Ella gazed into flat, pale gray eyes. She could not seem to look away.

  “Perhaps the viscount mentioned us? My father is Lord Wokingham?”

  Ella heard Mama’s sharp intake of breath before she said, “Good evening, Mr. Wokingham. How nice of you to introduce yourself. If you’ll excuse us, Ella and I—”

  “Lord Hunsingore suggested I come and speak to you, Ella,” he said with an oily familiarity that turned her stomach. “He thought you’d enjoy being taken for a stroll in the gardens. I understand they’re considered handsome.”

  A stout woman emerged from the richly garbed throng and touched Pomeroy Wokingham’s elbow. She wore deep mauve satin with a turban that did not quite match, and clasped a buxom, very red-haired girl by the wrist.

  Pomeroy spared the older woman a hooded stare. “Madam?” he said coldly. His chilling eyes moved on to the younger female. He glanced from her round, china blue eyes to her pouting lips, to her large, immodestly covered breasts. Ella noted that his attention lingered where tightly fitted, strawberry pink tulle strained over twin mounds of blue-veined white flesh.

  “Mr. Wokingham, I am Mrs. Able. The Reverend Able’s wife. Your father and my husband have met on a number of occasions, but of course, you know that. We don’t see you in church, but your family has a long and happy history with St. Cecil’s. I understand Octavius introduced our little Precious to you at the Rectory when you were last in Lancashire. I’m sorry I wasn’t at home on that occasion.”

  Pomeroy hadn’t had his fill of the red-haired girl’s breasts. “Regrets are mutual on this occasion.” Slowly, his attention slid to Mrs. Able. “Please give my regards to your husband.” With that he contrived to stand between the Ables and Ella. “As I was saying, Miss Rossmara, we should take a turn around the gardens.”