She, too, had the right to be bitter. Her reputation had been destroyed by her own youthful stupidity, her art denied her, and respectability consumed in the bonfire of Blackburn’s own desire. And she was destitute. Could de Sainte-Amand have recruited her? Every gentlemanly instinct rebelled, but in the cold logic of his mind, he knew the answer to be yes.
Standing, Blackburn picked up his beaver hat and carefully placed it on his head. It would appear it was time to renew his ignoble courtship of Jane.
A prospect that caused him too much pleasure.
Chapter 13
Jane put her finger to her lips, signifying silence.
Springall, the Tarlins’ butler, shut the outer door as quietly as he could, but shook his head. “Not likely, miss. My lady has been asking for you every five minutes.”
“I’ll change out of my street clothes and be down as soon as I can.” Humming a tune she’d heard on the avenue, Jane handed her redingote to the footman.
But before she could take a step toward the stairs, Violet said, “Jane, where have you been?” Her cotton skirt rustled as she hurried out of the drawing room. “Men are everywhere, like fleas on a dog. Adorna has a dozen gentleman callers already!”
Buoyed by an odd sense of exhilaration, Jane smiled at Violet. “And isn’t that what we want?”
“Yes, but you must be here, too.” With a proprietary air, Violet untied the ribbon under Jane’s chin. “We daren’t encourage the rumor you are hiding yourself away.”
“Why not?” Jane couldn’t keep the smile off her face as Violet tugged at her bonnet. “It’s Adorna they’ve come to see.”
“And Adorna they’ve come to court.” Handing Jane’s bonnet to the hovering butler, Violet said, “They’ll not be serious if they think her family is not up to snuff.”
The comment made Jane flush with sudden fire. “I wouldn’t do anything to harm Adorna.”
“I know that.”
Jane looked at Violet closely, and realized she had fallen for a trick. Violet feared Jane would be afraid to face the whispers and the gibing. And perhaps, before Jane’s experience today, she would have hesitated. But right now, joy buffered her, and quick as a cat, she tugged on one of Violet’s curls. “You would do anything to put me into society.”
Startled, Violet stood back and looked her over. “So I would. Jane, you’re looking very smug and very pretty. Where have you been?”
Without a qualm, Jane met her friend’s eyes. “For a walk.”
“And you come back looking like that? Whom did you meet? A long-lost lover?”
Jane chuckled. “In a manner of speaking.”
Grabbing Jane’s shoulders, Violet shook her. “Who? Was it Blackburn?”
“No. I’m sure he has dismissed me completely.” Only more than once this morning, she had heard booted feet behind her, and imagined she felt the slice of Lord Blackburn’s gaze. Such a stupid thing, to think he would do as he threatened, and hunt her down and use her.
Violet stepped away and viewed Jane with more suspicion. “Is it some other lover I know nothing about?”
Jane wasn’t going to answer. Oh, no, not and risk her dear friend’s disapproval. For disapprove, Violet would, and in this instance Jane would risk all for a little satisfaction. Just a little. Just for a while.
“I must go change,” Jane said. “Then I promise I will come down and be a chaperone once more.”
Violet started to follow as Jane ascended the stairs, but a knock sounded on the outer door, another gentleman arrived for his visit to the magnificent Miss Morant, and Violet was drawn away to her responsibilities as hostess.
For all her exhilaration, Jane well knew her duty and was determined not to neglect it. She summoned the maid. She washed her hands until no trace of anything that could betray her remained on the skin or under the fingernails. She changed into an unadorned gown of steel blue cambric, then sat before the mirror and allowed the maid to arrange her windblown hair into a more mature style. Still, nothing could dim the rosy color in her cheeks and the shimmering stars in her eyes. Jane had not felt this animated for years, and she welcomed joy’s return.
Yet she knew when she went into the drawing room, that woman must disappear, for she’d once again be Miss Higgenbothem, with old scandal clattering behind her like rusted laughter.
The trip down the stairs seemed longer and more arduous than the trip up, and as she descended, she allowed her mask to settle into place. She was the most proper chaperone ever to grace London drawing rooms. That, she could never forget.
She crossed the polished floor, her tread firm, and paused in the drawing room doorway. Inside, a veritable forest of suitors greeted her. Southwick and Mallery had donned their capes and were prepared to leave. They had overstayed the recommended twenty-minute visit, yet still they hovered, unwilling to abandon Adorna to the charms of Brockway and Brown. Those gentlemen had just arrived, and smirked at their departing rivals. Some whose names Jane could not recall had brought their sisters to make Miss Adorna Morant’s acquaintance. Others had their mothers in tow—or their mothers had them.
Jane knew very well mothers were notorious for wanting to meet their sons’ newest inamoratas.
In the midst sat Adorna, the image of feminine pulchritude and modesty. For a moment Jane was struck by the rightness of the picture, and she experienced a twitch of her fingers. With a pencil and sketch pad, she could capture this scene. The sharp contrast of black and white in the gentlemen’s clothing. The rainbow of gowns on chattering ladies, heads leaned close as they gossiped. The pale-clad debutantes, nervous and hiding it well, or nervous and not. Adorna, outshining them all, secure in the knowledge she had been created for this society.
Then all eyes turned toward Jane, and a silence fell. Lady Kinnard sniffed, a telling comment in the stifling quiet. Everyone had heard about the scandal, and today Jane was alone, with no Blackburn to threaten her—or protect her.
“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice low and cultured as Melba had taught her. “It is a pleasant day, is it not?”
For one dreadful moment no one replied. Then Mr. Fitzgerald stepped forward and bowed, and flashed an impudent smile, which Jane found vastly reassuring. “Indeed it is. Quite suitable for an outing, as I’ve just been telling Miss Morant.”
“Oh, yes, dear Aunt, so he has.” Adorna came to her feet, her gown of soft gold molding her body, her breasts shivering with the motion.
The men in the room shivered in unison.
“These ladies and gentlemen have been so kind as to make me welcome.” Adorna held out her hand, and Jane put hers in it. Then Adorna faced the chamber and smiled, breathed, and charmed. “I know they’ll make you welcome, too.”
“Yes, Miss Morant,” the men chanted.
Violet made her way to Jane’s side, and murmured, “They’re mesmerized.”
“Not the women,” practical Jane answered. If anything, the hostility among the ladies had heightened. Some of these women had daughters out this season. They envied Adorna’s success, and if they could undermine her by rejecting her chaperone, they would count the afternoon well spent.
It was frightening, to see that phalanx of rouged and powdered faces tighten with unified disapproval, and Jane grasped the enormity of this challenge. No one, not amiable Mr. Fitzgerald nor prestigious Violet, could stem the tide of condemnation.
Only Blackburn could, but Blackburn was not here.
Lady Kinnard stood.
“No,” Violet breathed.
Lady Kinnard’s three married daughters stood with her. Through the years, each of them had sought Blackburn’s attentions; each had been rejected in her turn. For them, the snub to Jane was more than social. For these women, it was personal.
After a brief hissing match, Miss Redmond, the latest Kinnard debutante, reluctantly rose also. With a great rustling of silks and many venomous sideways glances, the women prepared to leave.
Others followed suit, some smiling, some embarras
sed. It was to be an exodus. Jane would have to abandon London, and go…where?
Then, from behind her, her savior spoke.
“Miss Higgenbothem.” Blackburn’s voice was smooth and deep, rich with meaning and rife with innuendo. “I have come to call on you.”
Jane heard a gasp, and wondered if it had been her own.
I have come to call on you. With this visit, and with those words, he had reaffirmed his intentions of the night before. He had made Jane the pointed object of his pursuit.
She stood frozen, unable to move, afraid to look out at the gawking guests, more afraid to turn and look at Blackburn.
I have come to call on you. He was courting her. He was chasing her. It was her every fantasy, her every nightmare, come true.
Violet and Adorna, working together, hurriedly shoved her around to face him. Blackburn. The man who had stalked Jane in her dreams. The man who had threatened to take her to his bed. Would his purpose show in his countenance?
But no. He looked perfectly amiable. Exquisitely civilized. Utterly sartorial.
Until she looked into his eyes. They were blue and hot, intent on her to the exclusion of all else. He wasn’t a gentleman. He was a man with one thing on his mind.
Violet didn’t seem to see what was so obvious to Jane. With a smooth curtsy, she said, “Lord Blackburn. How good to see you.”
As he turned to Violet, his face lost all expression, and he bowed with the respect due his hostess. “I hope the day finds you well.” He lifted his quizzing glass. His gaze traveled to the suddenly gracious Lady Kinnard, then moved to each of her daughters. With a flounce, the youngest sat back on the sofa. The older three walked to the pianoforte and pretended an interest in the music set there. The other women tried to turn their motions into a natural restlessness, then settled back to watch the show. “You have, as usual, the finest gathering in all of London society.”
If he sounded insincere, it did not matter. Violet knew how to play the diplomatic game, and she played it with a gratified vengeance. “Thank you, my lord, but I fear it is my houseguests who have garnered the crème de la crème. Miss Morant and Miss Higgenbothem are assuredly the draw.”
“Lady Tarlin, you allow yourself too little credit.” Yet Blackburn bowed, first to Jane, then to Adorna. And then to Jane again.
His marked gallantry was a sign of particular attention, perhaps even more pointed than his use of the phrase I have come to call on you.
Jane found herself mute before his waiting gaze. He mocked her, she thought, well aware he had saved her from social annihilation and smugly daring her to reject his assistance.
She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Yet hard experience had taught her he would demand repayment, and to sign the contract without knowing the terms was the act of a desperate woman.
She should say something, she supposed, make some conversation, challenge him with words. But the scent of starch and lemon that clung to him clogged all channels in her brain, and she could feel only the surging resentment in her blood.
“Curtsy,” Violet whispered in her ear.
Jane did so.
“Let me in, Jane.”
The phrase was so faint, she thought she must have hallucinated. But no, Blackburn was leaning forward, close to her ear, and smiling.
He never smiled. Only now, and not with mirth or kindness. It was more of a baring of fangs, a signal she should run.
Violet pinched Jane’s arm. “You’re blocking the door, Jane. Let him in!”
Stupidly Jane stood still for one more moment. Then Blackburn stepped forward, so close their clothing brushed and she heard the beat of his heart.
Or was it hers, pounding in her ears?
She moved back so quickly Blackburn smiled again, and she pressed herself against the wall as he strolled into the drawing room. As she faced the ladies and gentlemen, she saw they eyed her with belated approval. They saw no further than the surface; they thought Blackburn smiled because he valued her.
Simpletons, every one.
With the ease that marked all her moments in society, Adorna took the situation in hand. “Lord Blackburn, Mr. Fitzgerald has been enthusiastically suggesting an outing, one that would allow Miss Higgenbothem and me to leave the city for a short afternoon. Perhaps you could suggest a destination.”
“Of course.” Lord Blackburn saluted Mr. Fitzgerald.
Mr. Fitzgerald saluted him back, but warily, as if he could not quite comprehend Blackburn’s attachment.
Mr. Fitzgerald had much in common with Jane.
“The weather is warm and dry, and one never knows how long we will be so blessed.” Blackburn surveyed the company, using his quizzing glass like a weapon. As he trained the lenses on each lady, on each gentleman, they one by one sat straighter, stood taller, became more courteous because Blackburn would accept nothing else. He was a leader of society, and no one was allowed to thwart his desires. Right now he desired that Miss Higgenbothem be accepted without question, so accept, her they would.
“A picnic would be ideal,” he said.
A murmur of polite agreement swept the company.
“Yes, a picnic.” Adorna clapped her hands. “Mangez le souris.”
Startled, Jane asked, “Adorna? Dear, what did you say?”
“Monsieur Chasseur taught me this morning. I said, ‘We’ll eat as we desire.’ ”
“Not…quite. I believe you said, ‘Eat a mouse.’ ”
“Oh.” Adorna faced the room and giggled. “I’m so silly.”
Half the gentlemen giggled, too. The other half cooed.
Adorna turned to Blackburn. “My aunt speaks French very well. She is so accomplished.” She sighed.
Her skill with languages, Jane did not deny. All those years ago, she had imagined she might someday leave the confines of the English shore and conquer the continent with her art. So she had studied the romance languages, Spanish, Italian, and French. Yet all she had gained was the ability to speak to Adorna’s French tutor, and Adorna’s hope that such skill would impress Lord Blackburn.
“My tutor loves to talk to her, because he says she’s so polished she makes him think he’s in France.”
“Does she.”
It wasn’t a question. More of a statement, and it was accompanied by a cool, thoughtful stare that ran like a chill over Jane’s skin. Blackburn’s gaze lingered on her breasts, and they tightened, too, until she felt stupid, casting innocent lures where none was needed.
“I myself do not speak French well,” Blackburn said.
Violet sputtered. “Modesty, Blackburn?”
He glared, and her mouth snapped shut.
“Not well at all,” he repeated. “So I find Miss Morant’s mistake as charming as herself. Might I proffer my sister’s estate, Goodridge Manor, for a picnic tomorrow?”
“Capital!” Mr. Fitzgerald said.
“Goodridge Manor?” Adorna clasped her hands. “How kind of you, my lord. Will there be room to picnic?”
The gentlemen coughed to hide their amusement. The women tittered.
“Oh.” Adorna gazed around with wide, surprised eyes. “Did I say something funny?”
“There’s no reason you should know.” Blackburn leaned his elbow against the mantel, a fine display of breeding, muscle, and tailoring. “Goodridge Manor is quite a large estate on the Thames near the coast. The house is on a hill. A park surrounds it, and extends to the shore.”
“I love the shore,” Adorna said.
“Then it’s settled.” Blackburn turned to Jane. “Or it is if your chaperone is amenable. Do these arrangements meet with your approval, Miss Higgenbothem?”
As if it mattered. Blackburn had, after all, just saved her from disaster once again. Yet no one remembered he was the author of the disaster. She must fall in with Blackburn’s wishes, and she was expected to be grateful; the inequity of it grated on her. “It is quite a distance, is it not?” she asked coolly.
She had the diversion of seeing Blackburn look su
rprised. “A three-hour drive.”
Jane turned to her charge. “We’ll have to be on our way early, Adorna, and there is a ball tonight.”
“I’ll leave the dancing early. Oh, please, Aunt Jane, mayn’t we go?”
It was a pretty appeal, and Jane suffered a pang when she saw it. “We will be delighted.” Jane directed her gaze over Blackburn’s right shoulder. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Tomorrow, Blackburn?” Violet’s satisfaction seemed greater than the good deed deserved. “Your impetuosity is fitting, but will Lady Goodridge be receptive at such short notice?”
“Lady Goodridge is, of course, a woman of refinement and gentility. But I assure you, should her servants be unprepared at any time, she would flay their skins from their hides.”
Everyone—Lady Kinnard, her daughters, the suitors, Adorna, Violet—nodded solemnly.
Jane chuckled.
She couldn’t help it; she thought Blackburn was joking, for Lady Goodridge was always so civil. But the bevy of disapproving stares silenced her, and like a child reproved in church, she hastily sobered.
That rare smile again played around Blackburn’s mouth. “Miss Higgenbothem is a dear friend of my sister’s,” he said to the company. “She is not at all in awe of Lady Goodridge.”
Jane wished she could fade into the green striped wallpaper. She would never be so bold as to call herself a good friend of Lady Goodridge’s.
Mr. Fitzgerald comforted Jane with a wink. “Lady G. has always been an admirer of Miss Higgenbothem’s, I believe.”
“No one would ever dispute that Lady Goodridge is the soul of benevolence.” Violet did not want it said she allowed any malediction of Lady Goodridge. She was not so brave.
“Sometimes,” her unrepentant brother said. “When she’s not making my life hell. For instance, she has been quite outspoken about my need for a wife.”
Jane groped for a sofa and seated herself. Since Blackburn’s entry, so many women had gasped, she found the air quite thin.
Adorna sounded deceptively innocent. “Lady Goodridge is ever wise.”
“Yes. After all these years, she has prevailed on me to agree.”
That Scandalous Evening Page 11