Word of Ellesmere’s acknowledgement spread, and over the next two days, as Irene and Clara were taken to the theater and the opera and to various other engagements, they were introduced to more people than either of them could possibly remember. Their days were long, and full of activities, and amid that social whirl, even Irene was grateful for the help and valuable advice of her new lady’s maid, Mrs. Holt.
She continued to supervise the paper, making liberal use of telephones and messengers. She missed her work, but it was nice, she had to admit, to have a holiday. She did not refer to her profession while in company, and thankfully, no one asked her about it. As Henry had said, even if one had to have an occupation, one could be discreet about it. Irene managed to be discreet.
Henry avoided her as much as possible, which was the proper thing to do under the circumstances. He seldom accompanied them as they mingled with his acquaintances in society. What he did with his time, to the best she could determine, was go to his club, conduct business of one sort or another, and stay away from the house in Upper Brook Street for as many hours a day as possible. He was, no doubt, happy to steer clear of her, but for her part, Irene was frustrated. His avoidance of her made things less awkward, certainly, but despite his efforts to absent himself from her company, his erotic confession still haunted her, and his kiss tormented her.
As the days went by, however, she became obsessed by a different, much more serious problem.
She was running out of time.
When subjected to Irene’s delicate inquiries on the subject, the duchess showed no signs of diminishing affection for her Italian or any inclination of changing her mind, and Henry gave her no indication he was coming to accept that fact.
She racked her brains for a solution. She talked it all over with Clara numerous times. To no avail.
She began to feel quite desperate. With only a handful of days left before her deadline was up, Irene lay in bed, wide awake, and not because of any delicious memories of kissing the Duke of Torquil. But even after going over the whole business again and again, she had no solution. If only she could seek out someone’s advice.
Advice. Was that a possibility?
Irene shoved back the counterpane, got out of bed, and lit a lamp. Padding over to the writing desk beneath her window, she sat down, pulled out notepaper, and took a moment to compose her thoughts. Satisfied, she inked her pen and began to write.
Dear Lady Truelove . . .
She began at the beginning, putting the whole business down in a letter to her famous literary creation. As she wrote, she couldn’t help feeling this was a pointless exercise, but she continued on. Her brain began to chide her that it was silly to think that writing herself a letter was going to resolve anything, yet she continued.
“You see, Lady Truelove,” she murmured out loud as she wrote, “Torquil is convinced that Foscarelli is out only for the money, but I am not. The duchess’s judgment is sound, I am sure, but what if she and I are both wrong and Torquil is right? And even if he is the one who is wrong, what would convince him that money is not this man’s only motive? I had advised no dowry, only an allowance, but—”
She stopped talking and her pen stilled, and suddenly in her mind, her next move lay before her, bright and shining like a new penny. “Foscarelli has to agree to forgo the dowry,” she murmured. “It’s the only way Henry will let me off the hook.”
Relieved that at last she had a plan, Irene put her pen down, blew out the lamp, and returned to bed. She didn’t know if she would succeed, but her worry had vanished, for when her head hit the pillow, she fell instantly asleep.
The following day, she put her plan into action. Josie obtained Foscarelli’s address for her, and though her face was alight with curiosity, she asked no questions. That evening, when everyone else went out to a concert and supper, she pleaded a headache, dressed herself all in black, and took a taxi up to Camden Town.
Antonio Foscarelli lived in a modest, but respectable service flat. As the taxi pulled up in front and came to a halt, Irene pulled the black veil attached to her hat down over her face. With her identity disguised from any journalists who might be watching Foscarelli’s residence for signs of the duchess, or any other female who might call upon the artist, Irene stepped down from the vehicle. She paid the driver, then handed him an additional shilling. “Wait here. I will return in half an hour.”
The driver tipped his cap in agreement, and she entered the building. She took the stairs to the second floor and paused in front of No. 2, the suite of rooms to the right of the staircase. Upon her knock, the door was opened by a well-dressed, very superior-looking manservant, who took in the appearance of a veiled woman in dark clothes on his master’s doorstep with perfect equanimity. She hoped that was due to his excellence as a servant and not as a testament to his master’s character.
“May I help you, madam?”
Safe from prying eyes now, Irene pulled back her veil. “I wish to see Mr. Foscarelli, please.”
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“I am a friend of the duchess.”
The manservant gave a slight bow and opened the door at once. “This way,” he said, leading her into a parlor that, to Irene’s middle-class eyes, seemed daringly bohemian. The walls were painted a vivid emerald-green and hung with gilt mirrors, evoking the mood of a Parisian salon. Tall peacock feathers stood in a vase, there were stacks of books and distinct traces of cigarette smoke, and a painting of a partially clad woman hung on the wall above the fireplace.
Irene smiled a little at the sight of it, recalling Henry’s words about the artist. His intent had been to lower her opinion of Foscarelli, of course, but if this was an example of the man’s work, she could see why women liked to be painted by him, for the image was excellently rendered and not at all salacious. It was, in fact, a tasteful rendering, and the subject, though beautiful, was not one of those pubescent girls that artists seem so fond of depicting in the nude. She was, perhaps, about Irene’s own age, or a bit older.
“My late wife.”
She turned at the sound of a man’s voice, and found herself face-to-face with the man considered to be one of London’s most notorious bachelors. With the fair coloring and pale skin of northern Italy, he was good-looking, but not extraordinarily so, and he was shorter than she might have expected. “A most excellent work,” she answered.
“Thank you.” He gestured to a settee of dark blue velvet, and Irene sat down, settling her dark skirts around her. He took the chair opposite. “My valet tells me you are a friend of the duchessa?”
She smiled a little. “And perhaps a friend of yours, as well.”
That, understandably, surprised him. He tilted his head, studying her with a puzzled frown. “Do I know you, Signora?”
“Yes, you do, in a way. I am Lady Truelove.”
Chapter 15
Henry stared out the window as the taxi in which he was riding pulled into Thornhill Square in Camden Town. He hadn’t planned to come here, and even now, after nearly forty minutes in the taxi, he wasn’t the least bit sure he was doing the right thing.
He was ignoring the rules of his upbringing, the good manners and restraint of a lifetime, and his own common sense. Self-doubt wasn’t an emotion he often allowed himself, but given that his whole world was a bit topsy-turvy at present, he supposed he was entitled to a little self-doubt.
Irene, of course, was the cause of much of that.
Don’t you think you should meet him for yourself before you judge his character?
A question he really hadn’t wanted to explore, and given all the other things that had happened that night in the library, it had been an easy one to ignore. The sailing trip, however, had forced him to accept that his mother was not going to be swayed from her course, and his only choice now was to attempt to mitigate the damage. To that end, meeting Foscarelli was no longer a choice. It had become a necessity.
The taxi stopped in front of his destination, and
Henry reminded himself that even if Foscarelli turned out to be every bit the scoundrel he expected, he could not, under any circumstances, put his fist through the other man’s face.
The driver opened the door. Henry drew a deep breath, put ducal pride in his pocket, and stepped out of the vehicle. Paying the fare, he instructed the driver to wait, then he entered the building and crossed the foyer to the stairs. But before he could ascend, he heard footsteps above him, and when he looked up, he saw a woman in black coming down. She turned on the landing, facing him, and he froze. So did she, hand on the balustrade, one booted foot suspended over the step in front of her.
“Henry?” she gasped, staring at him.
Appalled, he stared back at her. “Miss Deverill? What in blazes are you doing here?”
She lifted her chin, giving him a look he was coming to know well as she came down the rest of the stairs. “I might ask you the same question.”
It was a question he was in no frame of mind to answer. He strode forward. “Come with me,” he said, then took her arm and began pulling her—none too gently—toward the door, his only thought to get her out of here. “A woman, alone, in Camden Town, after dark,” he muttered as he opened the door. “Good God, are you mad?”
“Wait,” she ordered in a sibilant whisper and yanked a veil down over her face just before he propelled her out the door and down the steps.
“Do you know the risks you’ve taken?” he said as they crossed the sidewalk to his waiting taxi.
Her taxi was also waiting at the curb, and he waved to its driver. “Walk on,” he ordered, and the man on the box gave a shrug, snapped the reins, and started his vehicle down the street.
His own driver had already climbed down and opened the door. “Sixteen Upper Brook Street,” he said tersely, removed his top hat, and shoved Irene into the carriage. He followed, tossing his hat into a corner and taking the seat opposite her as the driver closed the door behind them.
“Good grief, Henry,” she grumbled as he jerked the curtains closed. “There’s no need to manhandle me.”
“I thought I was very clear when I said you could not meet Mr. Foscarelli. It’s obvious you had no compunction whatsoever about disobeying that instruction, so I have no reason to believe you would willingly obey one to accompany me into a taxi.”
“I am happy to accompany you for my business here is finished.” She pulled back her veil and settled her black crepe skirts around her. “I certainly never dreamt I’d encounter you here, though. I thought you couldn’t meet Foscarelli without an introduction.”
“I suppose that in spite of my very specific instructions, you chose to pay a call on Mr. Foscarelli out of curiosity, with no regard for your reputation or any consideration for the people who are currently introducing you into society. There were two young men lounging in doorways across the street, and I would wager my last quid that they are employed by your competition. Or do you think your fellow scandal sheets will refrain from writing about you because of some notion of professional courtesy?”
“Oh, stop exaggerating. It’s dark out. I came in a taxi.” She reached up, yanked out her hatpin, and removed her hat, waving the mass of black straw and chiffon at him. “I wore a veil, for heaven’s sake! Really, Henry, you might give me a little credit,” she added, sticking the pin through the crown and tossing the whole ghastly contraption to a corner of the carriage, where it landed on top of his own hat. “I know how to take precautions to protect myself from gossip. No one will ever know it was me.”
“I’m not so sure about that. You’re staying in my house, and I’m sure they saw me.”
“Well, the fact that you can’t be discreet isn’t my fault! Besides, if anything, they’ll think I’m your mother.”
“Odd, but I don’t find that possibility particularly comforting. And,” he added, his ire rising higher, “discretion isn’t even the most important consideration. What about your safety? You would put that at risk just to satisfy your curiosity?”
“I didn’t go to see Foscarelli out of curiosity.”
“Why, then?”
“I’ll tell you my reason if you tell me yours. Are you here to try again to buy him off? Because you won’t have any success.”
“I know that. As I told you, Mama spiked my guns on that score. I was hoping, however, that he might be persuaded to accept a smaller dowry than the one he’d finagled out of Mama.”
She blinked, startled. “So you’ve accepted their marriage as inevitable?”
“I’m not waving the white flag just yet, trust me,” he muttered. “But there’s no harm in preparing for the worst. And now that I’ve explained my reason for being here, I’d like to hear yours. What reason could you possibly have for jeopardizing your safety in this way?”
She sighed, looking away. “Thornhill Square is a perfectly respectable neighborhood,” she said, but the diffidence in her voice told him she knew he was right about the risks involved. “It’s safe enough.”
“Safe enough?” He studied her lovely profile, reminded of what consequences might have resulted from her decision to go gadding about northeast London alone at night. He leaned forward and grabbed her arms, forcing her to look at him. “Thornhill Square might be safe, I suppose, but the neighborhoods you traversed to get here are most definitely not. What if the cab had broken a wheel, or one of the taxi’s horses had gone lame? God—” He broke off, for contemplating what might have happened to her was more than he could bear, and he gave her a little shake. “Where are your wits, Irene?”
She smiled at him, and Henry sucked in his breath. Even in the dim light, her smile disarmed him, and his anger faded into bewilderment. “Why in heaven’s name are you smiling like that when I’m chiding you up hill and down dale?” he demanded.
“You called me Irene.”
“Sorry,” he apologized at once, and let her go, feeling as if he were coming utterly undone. “I know you gave me leave, but nonetheless, I should not have done it. Put it down to frayed nerves. This week’s events have worn them to a nub.”
“You’re concerned about me.” The notion seemed to please her. Her smile widened, and he felt the warmth of it seeping into him, settling into his very bones and bringing a pleasure borne not only of desire, but of something deeper and more profound that he wasn’t sure he wanted to explore.
He looked away, embarrassed. “Of course I am. Any gentleman would be.”
“You say that with such conviction,” she murmured, “and yet, there are many gentlemen who wouldn’t care two straws.”
That was truer than he liked to think.
“I’m not used to that,” she said musingly.
He looked at her, curious, and found her smile had faded to a serious expression. “Not used to what?”
“Having someone be concerned about my well-being. It’s . . .” She paused. “It’s nice,” she whispered, sounding surprised.
“Yes, well . . .” He took a moment, working to regain his equilibrium. “I hope, now that your curiosity has been satisfied about the man who aspires to become my stepfather, you won’t be making any more jaunts to Camden Town after dark?”
“I already told you, it wasn’t curiosity that brought me here. I came for much the same reason you did. I was hoping to persuade him to accept an allowance in lieu of a dowry.”
“I see. And did you have any success?”
“No, because he needs a substantial capital sum. It’s not for himself—”
Henry interrupted with an unamused laugh. “Of course not.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “Did you know he has land in Italy? And twelve brothers and sisters? They have an olive farm near the Amalfi coast that his grandfather let go to rack and ruin. His father’s dead, and since he’s the eldest, it’s up to him to support them all. That’s why he needs a dowry.”
“And I daresay he tells this heartbreaking story to anyone who will listen. Something, no doubt, about his poor but lovely mama, widowed so tragically, and of his
dear, dear siblings—perhaps one a young sister with consumption? He may have mentioned royal blood, too—his family’s long-lost—and wholly fabricated—connection to the duchy of Milan, perhaps?”
She made a face. “No royalty, no consumption. Just six hundred acres of olive groves and grape vines. They are neglected and overgrown, but could be made profitable, if only—”
“If only he had money. Without that . . .” He paused for an exaggerated sigh. “I fear doom is upon his entire family.”
She frowned. “Really, Henry, I’m trying to explain his circumstances.”
“About which I assume I am supposed to care?”
“Well, you should,” she flared, positively scowling now, “since he is likely to become a member of your family in a few days, a possibility you have acknowledged yourself. The point is that he has land. Surely that raises him a notch or two in your aristocratic circle?”
“Land doesn’t make a man a gentleman.”
“So what does? A title? A proper place in the stud books? God, Henry,” she added before he could answer, “you are the stuffiest, stubbornest, most aggravating man I have ever met.” She fell to her knees, grasping the facings of his evening jacket in her fists, crushing the flower in his buttonhole and filling the carriage with the heavy scent of carnation.
“And do you want to know the most aggravating thing about you?” she demanded, punctuating each word with another tug on his lapels. “It’s that every time I start to think what an amazingly attractive man you are, you open your mouth and ruin it!”
Henry blinked, startled, certain he hadn’t heard correctly. “You think I’m attract—”
“Henry?” She eased between his legs before he could think to stop her, and pulled him closer. “Just shut up,” she said and kissed him.
Her lips were every bit as soft as before, but even hotter, even sweeter, and the pleasure of it was so acute, it was like pain. Desire began coursing through his body at once, hammering through his brain, pulsing through his blood.
The Truth About Love and Dukes Page 21