Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  As Victor walked towards the door, already dreading the fact that four hours of evening tasks had to be condensed into two hours, Selby appeared beside him—moving with the quick, flowing grace that suggested there was more to his life than met the eye.

  ‘Not utterly mediocre. I’ll give you that. But Wetton grows more and more intolerable the more one knows him.’ Selby’s voice was perfectly modulated; not loud enough to be overheard, but not quiet enough to invite eavesdroppers. ‘I know why you have put up with him for this long, but fail to see why you continue putting up with him.’

  ‘There is no way of explaining it that anyone has understood. He granted me my life, Selby.’ Victor sighed. ‘A life is worth more than a thousand paltry favours.’

  ‘I suppose. This many favours would begin to irk me, but I am much less saintly than you.’ Selby frowned. ‘This particular favour, though… forgive me for saying so, Bale, but—aren’t you madly in love with the Thurgood woman?’

  Victor’s eyes widened. He stared at Selby, wondering how on earth the neat, inscrutable man had managed to guess the infatuation that had him practically on his knees.

  ‘Yes. That’s what I thought. Don’t trouble yourself, Bale—no-one else knows.’ Selby smiled; the expression vanished from his face as quickly as it had appeared. ‘I’m a little better at finding hidden things than others. You become almost comically wooden whenever her name is mentioned.’

  ‘Yes.’ Victor felt oddly light-headed. ‘Probably because it’s considered bad form to lay on the floor and weep.’

  ‘Oh, yes. You would never get into Almacks if you sobbed all over a billiard table.’ Selby coolly examined his nails. ‘Not that we’ll ever get in anyway… although, if you timed your tears correctly, a pitying countess would probably send you a brace of pheasants.’ He smiled again, lightning-fast. ‘I like pheasant.’

  The idea was so odd, so powerfully funny, that Victor couldn’t help but smile. Selby, watching the merriment his words had caused, showed one of the rare flashes of emotion that Victor knew must flow in currents beneath the bland, careful surface of the man’s face.

  ‘Look.’ Selby’s voice was newly serious. ‘If this favour asks too much of your time, or your sentiments, you have every right to refuse him.’

  ‘I know. But it won’t. Lord, Selby—it cannot possibly work. Words can only do so much.’ Victor went over what Wetton had said, trying to divine the exact nature of the task he would be called upon to do. ‘I suppose I shall have to write him some letters, or list a series of pretty compliments he can try to use.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing that will cause me any more suffering than that which I have already undergone.’

  ‘But you have to meet him tonight.’ Selby looked deeply suspicious. ‘I do not understand why letter-writing needs to take place at night.’

  ‘Selby, you worry too much. Really, you do.’ Victor gently patted the man’s shoulder. ‘But I am sure whatever scheme the man has cooked up will be utterly unremarkable.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Selby clicked his tongue. ‘For your sake, I hope so.’

  Victor smiled wearily as his friend returned to the sofa. For a man so uniquely unfortunate when it came to looks, he was certainly lucky beyond measure when it came to friends. Maldon, Selby, Grancourt and Harding had their own troubles—they would not have been declared Bad Dukes otherwise—but when it came to support, each man had his own unique way of making his friendship felt.

  Come on. He squared his shoulders. What could possibly go wrong?

  The irritated whisper carried through the gardens as loudly as if it had been a shout. It shot through the box hedge, skirted along the formal knot and spread across the moonlit lawn, dissipating only as it reached the imposing iron gate that read Thurgood.

  ‘A bush? A sodding bush?’

  ‘Bale, keep your voice down.’ Lord Wetton’s urgent whisper didn’t reach quite as far as Victor’s outburst. ‘They’ll hear us.’

  ‘I hope they do! They can come and laugh at this ridiculous—’

  ‘They’re coming! Get down.’

  ‘In this thing?’ Victor looked at the bush, scowling, before turning to Lord Wetton. ‘You cannot possibly be serious.’

  ‘Please, Bale. I cannot think of a more reasonable place to put you—I would if I could, but…’ Lord Wetton shrugged, looking up at the imposing façade of the Thurgood residence. ‘There’s hardly a convenient gamekeeper’s cottage, or large tree. This is the only place you can safely hide in front of the lady’s window.’

  ‘Safely? There are thorns the length of my finger on the bloody thing!’

  ‘Not that many thorns.’ Lord Wetton looked at the bush, then mulishly back at Victor. ‘I’d do the same for you, of course.’

  Victor swallowed his retort. He didn’t know if Lord Wetton would do the same for him; the idea of it was irrelevant. He had already saved Victor’s life, if not his face. The size of the debt was greater than any loan of money, or time, or skilfully deployed words.

  ‘Look—they’re at the window now.’ Lord Wetton frantically shooed Victor as two distant figures appeared in the window. ‘Is that them? I can’t be entirely sure.’

  ‘It’s her. Her and her maid.’ Victor barely had to look fully at the two silhouettes to know them; Isabella’s way of standing and walking was thoroughly impressed upon his mind.

  ‘Come on then.’ Lord Wetton turned in the direction of the window, adjusting his cravat. ‘The bush is waiting, old chap. Hop in.’

  ‘Oh, lord.’ Victor crouched down, wincing as he manoeuvred himself into the heart of the foliage, swearing quietly but savagely as a thorn scratched his palm. ‘This is the most colossally stupid idea I have ever been a part of. This is not, under any circumstances, going to work.’

  ‘Nonsense, Bale.’ Lord Wetton drew himself up to his full height, looking greedily at the silhouettes in the distant window. ‘This plan is foolproof—she’ll never suspect a thing.’

  Far above the garden, safe in the warm, lavender-scented confines of the principal Thurgood bedchamber, two women watched the moonlit garden in stunned silence.

  ‘Daisy.’ Isabella Thurgood eventually spoke to her maid in a soft murmur, looking dreamily down at the scene below. ‘Have I taken complete leave of my senses, or has this particular suitor decided to take commands from someone hidden in a bush?’

  ‘Goodness.’ Daisy, careful not to turn her head, looked narrowly down at the clump of vegetation next to Lord Wetton. ‘I… I do believe you’re right, ma’am.’

  ‘Yes. I rather thought I was.’ Isabella let her eyes drift over the dark figure hidden in the tangle of leaves, one hand resting idly on her chin. ‘How… intriguing.’

  It was intriguing. By the usual standard of London’s eligible men, it was positively fascinating. There had been flowers at Isabella’s door, presents in her carriage, lines of credit opened in shops she had only ever dreamed of visiting—the usual things, things that no longer excited her. But a man so unsure of himself that he had brought along help… why, it was dreadfully amusing.

  Dreadfully amusing if she didn’t think about it too deeply. If Isabella did think about it, it simply became dreadful—just as everything else did. Her shining new fortune, her glittering Season, her wildly extravagant life… her aching, terrible loneliness, after her benefactor had died. Her deeply-held belief that none of these men, not a single one, would have ever looked at her twice before her inheritance had become public knowledge.

  Dreadful, all of it, but one had to laugh. Particularly at a ferocious snob like Lord Wetton, whose ambitions in marriage were only matched by his complete lack of charm or grace. Isabella, a small sigh building in her breast, whispered again to Daisy.

  ‘Would you mind awfully pretending to be me for a little while? I do not think I can bear this imposition tonight. I am exhausted.’

  ‘Ma’am, you know I would.’ Daisy’s eyes twinkled. ‘But the house must be prepared for the dance, and the housemaids are behind. They n
eed a firm hand.’

  ‘I could be you in turn. I’m sure I could shout at housemaids, if they were slow.’ Isabella looked at her maid piteously. ‘Do let me.’

  ‘With all due respect, ma’am, you’re about as frightening as a kitten when you shout.’ Daisy smiled. ‘And we look awfully alike in an upstairs window, but I doubt the illusion carries all the way down to the scullery.’

  ‘If only it did.’ Isabella smiled back at her maid, noting once more their uncanny resemblance. They really could be sisters, if not twins. ‘Must I let you go, for now?’

  ‘Yes. You must.’ Daisy leaned closer, her eyes darting back to Lord Wetton. ‘But do let me know how this one fares, with the help of his bush-gentleman.’

  ‘Daisy.’ Isabella covered her hand with her mouth, restraining a laugh. ‘That sounds horribly rude.’

  ‘Well then.’ Daisy made her way to the bedroom door, curtseying. ‘I shall have to leave you scandalised.’

  ‘Which one’s going? The lady or the maid?’ Lord Wetton turned briefly to Victor, alarm on his face. ‘I have devilish trouble telling them apart.’

  ‘The maid went.’ Victor concealed a sigh of exasperation; how could Lord Wetton not see the clear differences between the two silhouettes? ‘You are alone with the lady now. Or rather, we are. I suppose that is somewhat promising.’

  ‘I’ll say.’ Lord Wetton looked more eager. ‘What shall I say to start?’

  ‘Well.’ Victor tried to think clearly, even as a spider crawled over his hand. His back already hurt; why did Lord Wetton appear to have chosen the smallest of the bushes? ‘I think something simple would be a good way to begin—’

  ‘My fairest lady! Pure-hearted Beatrix of this soggy isle!’ Lord Wetton waved his hand frantically at the window; Victor saw Isabella’s silhouette stiffen. ‘Clear-eyed temptress of a thousand—’

  ‘Stop!’ Victor tried to whisper as loudly as possible. ‘What the devil are you doing?’

  ‘Making a grand entrance!’ Lord Wetton winked heavily at Victor, his pleased whisper almost worse than his opening words. ‘What lady doesn’t love a man who can begin well?’

  ‘Look.’ Victor watched the window; Isabella appeared to be leaning out of it, her long plait gleaming in the moonlight. ‘I think we are about to find out.’

  ‘Good sir.’ The sweet, perfectly measured voice of Isabella Thurgood flowed over the garden; Victor paused, breathing in her words, his heart tugging painfully at every nerve. ‘I have much to do, and I am tired. Your current conduct hangs between a curiosity, and a nuisance—and your next words will push you into one camp, or the other.’ She paused; Victor heard the faint trail of exhaustion that curled at the end of her words. ‘Choose wisely.’

  ‘Oh, balls.’ Lord Wetton looked at Victor. ‘Have we ruined this before it had a chance to begin?’

  No ‘we’ about it, you idiotic imp. Victor, biting his tongue, considered what on earth to say next. Poetic nonsense would only enrage Isabella, and quite rightly too… and goodness knows, nothing crude would be acceptable…

  … His mind, to his great annoyance, was almost a complete blank. Only a small number of words remained, shining in the darkness of his innermost thoughts like a clear, tempting beacon.

  His true feelings. The things he would tell Isabella if they ever, by some impossible chance, met face to face.

  If not now, then when?

  ‘Listen.’ Victor sighed. ‘I think I have something.’

  ‘I think you are in pain, my lady.’

  Isabella paused. Slowly, deliberately, she moved back to the window. Leaning out, trying not to look directly at the man hidden in the shrubbery, she made her voice as icy as possible. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I think you are in pain.’ Lord Wetton cleared his throat; Isabella sensed how uncomfortable he was with the words he was being told to say. ‘I think you are bored to death of being praised for your beauty, which was not your choice—or your fortune, which was not your choice either.’ He paused, evidently trying to remember what he had been told. ‘I think you must be ready to set the dogs on bumbling, pompous suitors who decide to plague you in your garden, popping up like troublesome weeds in order to inform you of what you already know—that you are very beautiful, and very rich.’ He threw a small, vicious glare in the direction of the bush. ‘Suitors like myself.’

  How did the hidden man know the most fiercely kept secret of Isabella’s heart? How did he know that she was frustrated beyond imagining at all of it; the endless faces, the ceaseless pretty words, none of them showing any desire deeper than that for a pretty girl with a full purse… it was as if he had been listening to her sighs when she was alone. Or reading the tear-spattered diary entries she wrote in the grip of pure misery, before throwing them in the fire when she thought better of it.

  ‘Well.’ She let the word hang on the air, wondering if she was brave enough to hear more. ‘You certainly have my attention. How… how precisely am I meant to ease this pain?’

  By the look on Lord Wetton’s face, she had just presented him with a problem he had no idea at all how to solve. Still, as the pause lengthened, the man’s expression grew more clear—apparently the man in the bush was acquitting himself well. Isabella mentally ran through who she knew of Lord Wetton’s circle, but found herself unable to reconcile any of their faces with the honest, burning words she had just heard.

  ‘Not being as beautiful as you, my lady, or as rich, I cannot presume to know the depth of your frustration.’ Lord Wetton squared his shoulders. ‘I can, however, offer you compliments which come from the heart—not from a cheap novel.’

  Isabella had to laugh. ‘I see. Go on.’

  Lord Wetton paused, looking not-too-discreetly at the bush, before beginning again. ‘You are funny. Much funnier than most of the men in the ton who would call themselves wags. You are a master of the social whirl—why, you have effortlessly managed any number of swains. You have even persuaded some of them into marriages that will make them far happier than being with you ever would. That, of course, is an insult to them rather than you. And—’ Here he paused, clearly not agreeing with whatever the man in the bush was saying. ‘… And you are kind in the way that only people who have suffered can be kind. Gently, and quietly, with no expectation of reward.’ He stumbled a little over the final sentence. ‘You are kind even when you think no-one is looking. Well—someone has been looking.’

  Isabella could think of no adequate reply. She let the words travel through her, melting parts of her soul that had previously been hardened before settling deep inside her. Raising a distracted hand to her head, she blinked as she brushed away an errant curl.

  These were not the elegant, cooing words of a grand seduction. Neither were they the effortless, empty-headed frills of words meant to compliment a woman just enough to get her down the aisle. These were warm, and considered, and serious; serious in a way that thrilled through her body, as if she were finally waking to the world.

  Whoever the man in the bush was, he had seen her. Seen her in a way that no-one else had. Isabella bit her lip, her breath caught in her throat, wondering how best to meet him without attracting Lord Wetton’s attention.

  Ladies could never move openly. Like a queen on a chess-board, she would have to plan her attack. Anything impetuous would invite scandal, both for her and the hidden stranger… but oh, a little scandal sounded wonderful.

  ‘Your words move me.’ Isabella decided to speak as plainly as possible; she did not wish the significance of the man’s words to be lost in flowery nonsense. ‘In fact, they move me greatly. I… I wish to speak more, in this fashion.’

  ‘Of course, my lady!’ Lord Wetton didn’t appear to be awaiting further instructions. ‘If you wish it, we can speak until sunrise.’

  Isabella eyed the crouched, hunched figure of the man in the bush. Much as she wished to keep speaking—keep hearing those delicious, intoxicating words—she highly doubted that the man would be able to bear six
or so hours hidden in shrubbery. She looked back at Lord Wetton, filled with disdain for a man who would let his friend languish in such evident discomfort.

  ‘A lovely idea, but one I cannot permit. The groundsmen patrol at night—I would hate to see you pursued by the dogs you so humorously mentioned.’ She had no dogs, and the groundsman was far too lazy to patrol, but the idea would hopefully keep Lord Wetton from insisting he stay. ‘But a dance is being held here tomorrow. I assume you already know.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lord Wetton nodded.

  ‘Good. And your lack of invitation appears to be the most atrocious oversight.’ Isabella sighed inwardly; Lord Wetton’s lack of invitation had been most deliberate. ‘One that shall be immediately corrected.’

  Lord Wetton bowed. ‘I am uncommonly grateful to you, my lady.’

  ‘No, sir. It is I who am grateful to you—you have given me so much to think on.’ Isabella paused, wondering if the audacious gamble she had set her heart upon would sound too strange if suggested. ‘Why… I am so grateful, that I am sure I shall monopolise you completely at the dance. The other ladies will be so very put out. I insist you bring a friend—one who can ensure your attentions will not be divided.’ She allowed herself the luxury of a small, completely manufactured pout. ‘I fear I can be terribly jealous.’

  ‘Not at all, my lady. Very understandable.’ Wetton was nodding along, the faint movement of his neck almost hypnotic. ‘I have the perfect friend in mind.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Isabella allowed herself the luxury of a genuine smile; she hoped the man in the bush saw it. ‘Well… you have given me much to think of as I fall asleep.’

  ‘Good.’ Lord Wetton did not appear to be moving. ‘I am enormously glad.’

  ‘Yes.’ Isabella waited; clearly even a hint as enormous as the one she had just given was too subtle for the man in front of her. Wasn’t every gentleman supposed to know when a woman was tired of him, and wished to go to bed? ‘Fall asleep… because I am so terribly tired.’

  ‘I imagine you are!’ Lord Wetton’s smile was still wide, his stance still embarrassingly alert. Isabella was oddly reminded of a spaniel, or a setter staring at ducks. ‘Your days are so terribly busy.’