The Earl's Mistress Page 4

  “My, you do not wish for much, do you?” But the marchioness was looking at Isabella with a new sort of respect.

  “I can’t go home with nothing,” said Isabella. “I cannot. The children think I’ve taken a post in Northumbria. They think . . . they think everything is going to be all right. Because I promised them it would be. Can you understand, ma’am? I promised. Jemima is old enough now to comprehend our circumstances—and to fret herself ill.”

  “Very well!” As if in surrender, Lady Petershaw threw up her hands. “But if I’m to help you in this, Mrs. Aldridge, I shall tell you right now that nothing in your trunks will be of service,” she warned. “You must dress and act the part. And pray do not imagine some sweet, rose-covered cottage and a quick pump in the dark, my dear. A wife is required to do that much. Shall I tell you just how it will be?”

  Isabella opened her mouth, then shut it again. “Yes,” she finally said. “Yes, I daresay you ought.”

  “You must learn to loosen your hair and lower your bodice,” said the marchioness firmly. “You must learn to flutter your lashes, flirt dangerously, and convince this man to whom you are introduced that you burn to writhe beneath him—even if you both know, in your hearts, that it’s nothing but a charade. Once the deal is struck, you must bend yourself to his will in bed and out, and pray that he is not cruel or depraved. It is what’s expected. It is what a mistress must do that a wife need not. Shall I be more blunt?”

  Isabella looked away, swallowing hard. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Very well, then,” said the marchioness. “If the man is terribly cruel—if you fear for your life—then you must return his gifts and leave him. If he is only a little depraved, you must learn to tolerate it—and learn to become whatever he most desires, be it dominating or utterly shattered and submissive. Some men will wish you to struggle, then allow yourself to be taken. The odder ones will wish to braid your hair, dress you in white lace, then put you across their knee. And they will want you to beg for it—which you will do, my dear Mrs. Aldridge. You must, in short, become a whore. There, I have said it.”

  Isabella felt her color draining. “That is indeed a harsh word.”

  “And I use it for a reason.” The marchioness set her head assessingly to one side, eyes narrowing. “Yes, my dear, a high-class and well-kept whore—but you’ll be one nonetheless. And if you are caught at it, you will be called a whore, probably to your face. You might have to cut your connection to your sisters, or risk dragging them into society’s abyss with you.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” Isabella admitted. “But their standing is already precarious.”

  “Still, these are morally rigid times in which we live,” the marchioness warned. “No one who receives you now is apt to do so if you’re caught. Not unless you have the rare good fortune to be redeemed by an extraordinary marriage—and even then your redemption will have its limits. Trust me. I know.”

  “Yes,” Isabella quietly admitted. “I understand.”

  “Well,” the marchioness went on, “have you the stomach for it?”

  “Is there security to be gained from it?” Isabella lifted her chin.

  The marchioness eyed her. “With your looks?” she said. “Yes, buckets, though it will probably come in the form of what will tactfully be called gifts—jewelry and an annuity first; later a pair of carriage horses or tuition, perhaps, for the girls. Though you are, if I may say so, a tad too thin just now.”

  She was thin; thin for a painfully good reason, too. Food was dear, and children had to eat. And lately, truth to tell, her appetite was waning anyway.

  The marchioness said no more for a moment, holding Isabella’s gaze. “My dear, is there absolutely no one in your family whom you can call upon?”

  Isabella shook her head. “My cousin wishes only to punish me for spurning him,” she whispered. “The children have only their mother’s brother, Sir Charlton, who lives near Thornhill. But he’s a wicked pinch-penny and has refused my every plea since Father died. Worse, he has of late become friends with Cousin Everett.”

  Frustration sketched across the marchioness’s face. Then, as if resolved in her decision, she nodded, rose, and rang the bell.

  “Fetch my maid,” she ordered the footman who answered. “Then unload Mrs. Aldridge’s trunks. Carry them up to my suite, and send round for my barouche.”

  The footman bowed and scurried off.

  “But what are we doing?” asked Isabella breathlessly.

  Lady Petershaw whirled around. “You are going home to the bosom of your family,” she said. “Tell them . . . something. That you have engaged an even better post. I’m going down to Covent Garden to make certain enquiries of an old acquaintance—let us politely call her a matchmaker. My maid is going to take your measurements, then sort out the undoubtedly dismal contents of your baggage.”

  “Th-thank you,” Isabella managed, rising. “But why?”

  “We are of a height,” said Lady Petershaw, going to her rosewood writing desk by the windows to unlock a drawer. “I have a few gowns that can be taken in. Tomorrow you will take this”—she turned and handed Isabella a roll of banknotes—“and go down to Madame Foucher’s in Oxford Street. Purchase yourself an assortment of undergarments and nightclothes. I trust I need not tell you what sort?”

  Numbly, Isabella took it. “N-no, ma’am,” she replied. “But I cannot take your money.”

  “Nonsense,” said the marchioness tartly. “You may pay me back if you insist. There is enough there, I trust, to settle your rent ’til next quarter day and fill the larder before you go off in whatever direction this takes you.”

  Isabella glanced at the note. “Yes, ma’am, quite.”

  “Very well, I will call on you by week’s end,” she said. “Be prepared to leave that instant should an opportunity have arisen.”

  Isabella folded the paper in half, then pressed it between her palms. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, my lady. I shall be forever grateful.”

  The marchioness sighed and shut the desk.

  “Then why is it, my dear Mrs. Aldridge,” she said grimly, “that I feel as if I am sending my lamb to the slaughter?”

  JUST A FEW short days later, and only a mile and a half away in Clarges Street, a less innocent sort of sheep found himself being led to slaughter, and by a far less tender shepherdess. Anne, Lady Keaton, practically had the rope round her cousin’s neck before his lordship apprehended that the sanctity of his home had been invaded.

  With a wary eye, Hepplewood watched her sweep into his study in a whirl of teal-colored silk, her dainty heels fairly snapping across the marble floor.

  Fording, his butler, shot him a withering look before bowing low and shutting the door.

  The lady was nothing if not sly; Hepplewood had slunk back into London little more than two days earlier, and save for one small matter of personal business—very personal business—he’d laid low, calling upon no one.

  Still, he believed a man ought to be gracious in defeat.

  “Good morning, my love,” he said, rising. “You are in radiant good looks.”

  “Stubble it, Tony,” said Lady Keaton, shrugging off her shawl. “You’ve a nasty little bruise beneath that eye. Dare I hope your latest mistress put you in your place?”

  “Actually, I fell,” said Hepplewood, “against her fist. And alas, she’s not my mistress—though I will confess, my dear, to having given it a good go.”

  “Ha! She refused you!” Lady Keaton flung the shawl over his leather sofa, and her reticule after it. “A rare event, I daresay. But one of these days, my boy, you’ll get your heart royally trod upon, or some lover scorned will stab you in the back. I wonder, honestly, how you sleep at night.”

  “Oh, cowards die many times before their deaths, but the valiant taste of death but once,” said Hepplewood, studying his manicure as his cousin plopped herself into his favorite chair. “But I trust, Anne, you’ve not come to inquire into my affairs of t
he heart?”

  Lady Keaton had the audacity to point at an especially private place. “Is that where you’re packing your heart nowadays, Tony?” she said on a laugh. “No? I thought not. So no, I have not come to discuss your affairs—and you are no Caesar, by the way.”

  Hepplewood smiled and settled himself on the sofa. He glanced again at Louisa Litner’s missive lying open on his desk, and the strangest shiver of desire ran through him.

  Anne was right, of course. He hadn’t an ounce of judgment when it came to women.

  “Tea?” he said. “Or coffee?”

  “No, and no. Thank you.”

  “Gin? Scotch whisky?”

  “It’s barely half past one,” said Lady Keaton on a sigh. “Now pay attention, Tony. I’ve come about Lissie.”

  “Lord, Anne, not again!” Hepplewood got up and poured himself a whisky. He was going to need it.

  “You are drinking too much,” said Lady Keaton, watching him. “I blame it on your mother’s death.”

  “Why? It was sudden, and it was merciful.” Hepplewood rammed the crystal stopper back in and returned to his chair. “Still, it’s as good an excuse as any, I daresay. Well, out with it, my girl. What’s the daily diatribe?”

  “Lissie should not be left alone at Loughford now that Aunt Hepplewood is gone,” said his cousin. “She is only six.”

  “Five,” said Hepplewood.

  “Nearly six,” said Lady Keaton. “She needs to be with family. With you. Or with Mrs. Willet. Or with me—or even with Gwen and Mrs. Jansen at the Dower House. But she should not be left to freeze to death alone in the wilds of Northumbria.”

  “Actually, I rebuilt all the chimneys at Loughford,” said Hepplewood dryly, “with her filthy-rich grandfather’s money. And you do apprehend, Anne, that your sister and Mrs. Jansen are—well, how shall I put this?—devotees of Sappho?”

  “Oh, good Lord!” Lady Keaton rolled her eyes. “How it galls me that you, of all people, should question a devoted and monogamous relationship—friendship—arrangement—whatever. They adore Lissie.”

  “I know,” he said more gently, “but Lissie is perfectly warm, Loughford is staffed to the teeth, and I’m searching for a new governess even as we speak.”

  “No, you are drinking whisky in your wrapper at one in the afternoon,” said his cousin hotly. “You will send for her, Tony, or by heaven, I shall! Harry and Bertie could do with a playmate. She may take her lessons with them.”

  Hepplewood slammed his whisky down, all pretense gone. “By God, don’t you dare suggest, Anne, that I give up my child,” he said, stabbing a finger at her. “I will never surrender her; no, not even to you. Indeed, you and Mrs. Willet are two of a kind, I begin to think—the damned old vulture.”

  “Mrs. Willet is not wrong,” said Lady Keaton hotly. “She’s Lissie’s grandmother, for God’s sake. Let one of us raise her, Tony, if you will not.”

  “Mind your own business, Anne,” he snapped. “Doesn’t Sir Philip have an election to rig or a reform to push? Can you not occupy yourself in being his wife, rather than running up here to bedevil me? If I’d wanted to put up with a lifelong harangue, by God, I would have married you instead of Felicity.”

  “Oh, I knew you too well, Tony, to have you,” said Anne grimly, “and Felicity simply did not.”

  “Oh, thank you, Anne, for pointing out the obvious!” he said bitterly. “But in the end, my dear, Felicity did know, didn’t she? It was simply too late.”

  “And that,” declared Anne hotly, “was Mr. Willet’s fault. He could have let Felicity break your betrothal. He could have. Indeed, she begged him. I know. I was there—and you were not.”

  Hepplewood felt his anger burn down to futility as swiftly as it had come. “I was not there,” he said, shrugging, “because she did not want me there. And it was a bloody good thing in the end old Willet forced our hands. Felicity paid a price, did she not, for her one brief moment of folly?”

  Anne fell silent, staring into the fire. After a long moment, she heaved a great sigh. “Shall I tell you what your problem is?”

  “Have I an option?” He felt his mouth twitch. “Experience suggests not.”

  “Your problem is that you cannot bear to look at that child. Lissie is pining away for her family, and you are down here whoring yourself blind.”

  “Whoring—?” He forced a wicked grin because it was expected. “My, Anne, how the pristine have fallen! And raging promiscuity, by the way, does not actually cause blindness. That’s just one of Uncle Duncaster’s old saws.”

  “Tony, you are the very devil.” Leaping up, Anne snatched up the reticule and shawl she’d tossed aside. “I loved Felicity. She was my friend. And I owe her daughter this—so I’ll tell you how it’s going to be. Philip and I are going up to Loughford to fetch her and take her down to Burlingame—and if you try to stop me, I will go straight to Grandpapa, do you hear me? I will, I swear to God.”

  “Duncaster’s a hundred years old and house-bound,” said Hepplewood dryly. “What’s he going to do? Come down here and strop me?”

  “He has certainly done it before!” Anne was trembling now, her reticule clutched to her chest, her shawl straggling off her elbow. “And I would not try him, Tony! I really would not! Grandpapa might just—just—”

  Hepplewood realized then that he had pushed her too far; that Anne was not aggravated, she was on the verge of tears. Suddenly, she flung her things to the floor and clapped her hands over her eyes.

  “No, you’re right,” she sobbed. “He w-won’t, w-will he?”

  “Well, damn it all,” he muttered, going to her and putting his arms about her shoulders.

  “I hate you, Tony! I hate you!” Anne set her forehead to his shoulder and sniffled miserably. “Why are you always such an ass? Until you were s-seized with good looks and charm, you were so n-nice! And I l-loved you quite utterly!”

  She did cry then, sobbing into his loosely tied cravat like a little child, and clutching at both his lapels. He set a hand awkwardly between her shoulder blades and made soothing circles, his mind tallying up the clues; her old arguments dredged up anew, the irrational tears, her flowing dress—and the belly she was pressing rather high against his waistcoat.

  “Anne, my love,” he finally murmured, setting his lips to the top of her head, “are you by chance expecting again?”

  “Y-yes!” she sobbed. “Is-is-isn’t it w-wonderful? But Grandpapa is going to d-die, isn’t he? He will not live to see another child born, will he? He is going to die with only Harry and Bertie and Rob and Barbara and Lissie and th-the twins—!”

  It would have done no good at all to remind Anne that Lord Duncaster was one of the richest, meanest, most self-satisfied men in Christendom, and that to have lived to the great age of ninety-odd years with a more or less happy family and an entire cricket team of nieces, nephews, and great-grandchildren was far from a tragedy.

  But there was nothing else for it; she would not be reasoned with. Most of the time, Anne was the sweetest soul he knew, but she could turn into a raging lunatic during those early months of expecting.

  More worrisome still, she might not be wrong.

  About anything.

  So he made another little circle, gave her a couple of neat pats, and said, when she lifted her head to look at him, “Do you know, Anne, I think you might be right.”

  “I’m always right,” she snuffled. “Philip s-says so!”

  “I’m sure he does,” said Hepplewood, straight-faced. “Go fetch Lissie for a visit. Take her straight to your grandpapa’s, if you wish. Uncle Duncaster isn’t especially well, and it will do them both a world of good.”

  “Well, all right, then,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “Won’t you come up, too?”

  He hesitated. “I can’t, Anne,” he said. “Not for a few weeks. I have business in the country.”

  She pushed herself away from his chest. “I won’t bother to ask what sort,” she said darkly.

  �
��I must look in on one of my properties.” He glanced again at Louisa’s letter and felt his blood stir dangerously. “But I promise to meet you back in London, hmm? In a month’s time, or thereabouts. That will give Lissie a long visit with you and Duncaster.”

  “And then we will talk about her future?” said Anne.

  Hepplewood gritted his teeth. He did not know, precisely, how to raise a little girl, but he damned well meant to manage. And no, he wasn’t doing an especially good job of bringing up Lissie—he did not need Anne to point that out.

  He told himself with every passing year that the next year he would snap out of this god-awful rut. But Anne, he feared, was right. Lissie was almost six, and he was out of time. His mother was dead, and the child required more than swaddling and coddling now; she required a family.

  Moreover, Anne was still looking at him expectantly.

  “And then we will talk about her future,” he managed, “if that is what you think best, my dear.”

  “Oh, thank you, Tony!” Lady Keaton stepped back, her face brightening. “Aren’t you just the best thing!” she added, dashing a fist beneath her eyes. “Don’t I always say so? And oh, what a watering pot I am. Look, why don’t you get dressed and walk me down to the arcade? You can buy me a new pair of gloves.”

  Hepplewood glanced at the longcase clock and sighed.

  Then, resigned to his fate, he yanked the bell and sent Fording off in search of his valet.

  CHAPTER 4

  The morning light cut across the wintry fields of Fulham, casting a faint sheen upon Georgina’s hair as Isabella swiftly braided. Above the glare on the window, she could see a rime of frost melting inside the glass, dripping inexorably into the cracked caulk and rotting wood.

  Isabella looked away. She could not afford to have the glazier in, and with the rent barely out of arrears, her landlord would be less than sympathetic to complaints.

  An old wool blanket tossed round her shoulders, Jemima sat perched on the end of the girls’ bed, her face a little anxious. Isabella knew too well the look, and it troubled her.

  “Jemma, darling, what’s wrong?”