A Wild Pursuit (17 page)

“Can you think of nothing?” The question hung in the air between them.

“I suppose there's your voice,” she said.

Mentally, Stephen cheered. She liked his voice! He walked over to her, and his words came out in the dark, liquid language he had used to convince reluctant politicians but never a woman before. “I shall have to hope that this voice is potent enough so that you enter the fray.”

She stared at him, eyes dark. He tipped up her chin and saw in her eyes the expectation of a kiss. So he bent and kissed her hand instead. “Lady Bea,” he said. “I wish you good night.”

She was surprised, he could see that. He doubted any man had ever left her company without begging for greater liberties. He hooked his coat with a finger and slung it over his shoulder. Then he walked to the door, feeling his body in an unfamiliar masculine swagger, in a walk so unlike him that he almost laughed.

“Stephen?” Her voice was so soft that it was no more than a whisper in the night air.

But of course he stopped. Whether she knew it or not, she was a siren, and he would follow her anywhere.

“Are you certain you're worth it? Two women vying for your attentions?”

His smile was as proud as a sultan's. “I've no doubt of that, Bea. To my mind, the only real question is—which of you will win me?”

She shrugged. “Not me. I don't woo.”

“A pity, that,” he said, and turned on his heel to go.

Bea stared at the closed door in blank astonishment. No man since Ned had ever walked away from her. In fact, she saw her role in society as a fairly simple one. She adorned herself; they came.

He was infuriating, if intriguing. But she'd be damned before she would chase a man, she who already had the reputation of a demimonde. That was one thing that was quite clear in her mind. She might have taken lovers—although far fewer than Stephen appeared to believe—but she had never, since Ned, allowed one of those men to believe that she was desperate for their company. Because she never was. She enjoyed male company. That was all.

And if Mr. Fairfax-Lacy wanted some sort of vulgar exhibition of interest, he was bound to be disappointed.

R
ees Holland, Earl Godwin, was in a pisser of a mood, as his butler put it belowstairs. “Got some sort of note from his wife, he did,” Leke confirmed.

Rosy, the downstairs maid and Leke's niece, gasped. “I saw a pantomime on my last half-day where the husband poisoned a love letter and when his wife kissed it, she died. Maybe the countess saw the pantomime as well and she's poisoned him!”

“He deserves it then,” grunted Leke. He found Earl Godwin difficult to work for, and he didn't like the irregularity of the household. On the one hand, his master was an earl, and that was good. On the other hand, the man had a dastardly temper, not to mention the fact that his fancy piece was living in the countess's quarters.

“And there's something to clean up there as well, so you'd better get to it.”

“Don't tell me he spilled coffee on all them papers again,” Rosy said, scowling. “I'm finding another position if he doesn't pick up those papers. How can I clean with that much muck about my ankles?”

“Don't you touch his papers,” Leke said. “It's worth your life. Anyhow, it's not coffee this time. 'Twas a vase of flowers the strumpet was foolish enough to put on his piano.”

“It's a wicked temper he has,” Rosy said with relish. “How the strumpet puts up with it, I don't know.”

The strumpet
was Alina McKenna, erstwhile opera singer and inamorata of the bad-tempered earl. The term
strumpet
wasn't truly pejorative; both Leke and his niece rather liked Lina, as she called herself. Not that one could truly like a woman of that type, of course. But she wasn't as hard to work for as a great many more virtuous ladies, and Leke in particular knew that well enough.

He shrugged. “Thank the Lord, the master's taken himself off, at least.”

“Where'd he go?”

“How could I know? Something in response to that letter from his wife, I've no doubt. Time for you to go about your duties, Rosy, before the strumpet makes her way home.” The only reason Rosy's mum allowed her to work in such a house of ill repute was due to her uncle's presence. He took his responsibilities seriously and did his best to arrange her duties so that she rarely encountered one of the inhabitants of the house.

“I'd best go clean the sitting room then,” Rosy said. It was a rare moment when the master wasn't in there pounding on one of them three pianos he had. And now there was likely water all over the floor.

A moment later she flew back downstairs, finding her uncle polishing silver. “I found the note,” she said. “The note from his wife. He'd crumpled it up and left it right there, on the piano.” She stuck out her hand.

Leke hesitated.

“Go on, Uncle John! You've simply got to read it—you know you do!”

“I oughtn't to.”

“Mum will just murder you if you don't,” Rosy said with relish. And that was true enough. Rosy's poor mum, Leke's only sister, was stuck in the house caring for Rosy's little sisters. She lived for stories about the goings-on at the earl's house that Leke and Rosy brought from the great house. That and the discarded gossip papers that the strumpet read and threw to the side.

Leke pursed his lips to indicate disapproval and then flattened the piece of paper. “It's from the countess all right,” he confirmed. “Looks like she's staying in Wiltshire somewhere.” He peered at the direction. “Can't really make it out. Perhaps Shambly House? That can't be right.”

“Never mind where she is!” Rosy said, dancing with impatience. “What did she say? Where's he gone to, then?”

“‘Rees,'” Leke read, “‘I've contracted pleurisy. If you wish to see me alive, please come at your earliest convenience.'”

Rosy gasped. “No!”

Leke was reading it again. “That's what it says, all right. I'm thinking it's a bit odd—what is pleurisy, anyhow?”

“Likely some awful, awful disease,” Rosy said, clasping her hands. “Oh, the poor countess! I only hope she's not deformed by it.”

“You've never met her. Are you crying?”

For Rosy was wiping away tears. “It's just
so
sad! Here she's probably been pining away for her husband, and longing for him to come back to her, and now it's too, too late!”

“Use your head, girl. If you were the earl's wife, would you be pining for him to return?”

Rosy hesitated. “He's very handsome.”

Her uncle snorted. “Like a wild boar is handsome, maybe. Face facts, Rosy. You wouldn't like to be married to the man, would you?”

“Well, of course not! He's awfully old, and so messy, too.”

“The countess was better off without him. Funny, though, about that pleurisy. Pleurisy. What is pleurisy?”

“Mum would know,” Rosy said.

“Neither of us has a half-day for another fortnight,” her uncle said dismissively.

“But you could go over this afternoon, Uncle,” Rosy pleaded. “You know you could. The master's gone to Wiltshire, to his wife's deathbed!” Her eyes were huge with excitement.

Leke hesitated and looked at the paper.

“That's our own mistress dying. We must needs know why. What if people ask?”

“I don't see what difference it makes. If she dies, the only thing we need are blacks. That is, if the master even sees fit to go into blacks for her death. Mayhap he and the strumpet will carry on just as usual.”

“Oh no, they wouldn't!” Rosy clasped her hands again. “Perhaps this will be enough to reform him. He'll—”

“You're dreaming, lass. Now up you go to the sitting room, and I'll see how I do with the polishing. If I can finish this lot, I'll nip over to your mother's.”

It wasn't until that evening that Rosy and her uncle met up again. Theirs was a small household, due to a combination of the earl's unconventional habits and the reluctance of decent servants to stay in a house of iniquity. Supper in the servants' dining room was merely Cook, Rosy, Uncle, and three footmen, not one of whom was quite as intelligent as he might have been. The scullery girl and shoeblack ate in the kitchen.

Rosy had filled Cook in on all the details of the afternoon before Leke made his way to the head of the table.

Rosy waited while he said a brief grace, and then burst out, “What is it, Uncle? What is pleurisy? Did Mum know?”

“Your mum is a keen woman,” Leke said, taking some roast beef from the plate handed him by James, the third footman. “Tuck your hand under the plate, James. You don't want us to have to stare at your fingers, do you? Put us right off our food, it would.”

James curled his fingers under the plate, and Leke nodded at him.

“She did know what pleurisy was, and that's a fact.”

“I thought pleurisy was some sort of thing children caught,” Cook said. Cook was a sturdy woman with bright red cheeks and a generous smile who had once cooked for the Prince of Wales and never forgot it. She was a genius in the kitchen, or so the prince had said. Earl Godwin had to pay her one hundred guineas a year to keep her in his house.

“That's right,” Leke said, nodding. “You're another shrewd one, just like Rosy's mum. It's a disease children catch. In fact, my sister had never heard of an adult with it.”

“But the countess isn't a child,” Rosy said, perplexed.

“I do know someone who caught measles and it killed him,” Cook said. “Mr. Leke, what do you think of this lamb pie?” Frustrated by the complete lack of visitors to the house, Cook had taken to serving up dishes for the staff as if Prinny himself were expected to sit down with them. “Have to keep my hand in, don't I?” or so she justified it. And it wasn't as if the master noticed anything wrong with the household bills. Rich as Croesus, he was.

“I'm liking it,” Leke said, chewing with proper gravity. “There's just a touch of allspice, is it?”

“Correct,” said the Cook. “I like a man with a knowing mouth, that I do.” She beamed at him and then turned to Rosy. “People die in the strangest ways. There's no telling what might happen to a soul. Why, I just heard the other day that a man was riding his horse across the moors, right in the daylight, mind, and…”

I
t took two days—two whole days—for Esme's heart to form a hard little shell that stopped her from thinking about the marquess. He was gone. That story was finished. True, his mother was still in the house, sparring with Arabella and occasionally flinging an insult at Esme, but her presence was irrelevant. Sebastian was gone, as Miles had gone, and as men always went. She decided to stop thinking about him. Forever. Of course, that didn't stop her from waking at the first light of dawn and brooding. It's a very good thing that Sebastian took himself off to France, Esme told herself, because I was in danger of believing his protestations and vows of love. More fool I. He didn't love me enough to defy me when I told him to leave. He just left. Probably thinking she'd be waiting when he returned from a leisurely exploration of French vineyards.

Why on earth cry for such a man? A potent, useful rage was filling the empty spaces in her heart. It was
his
fault that she was forced to entertain his mother. And it was
his
fault that she was carrying an elephantine child (never mind the irrationality of that). And it was
his
fault that she was husbandless and in the awkward position of not knowing who'd fathered her own child.

All together, her situation was all
his
fault, and the only pity was that he was no longer there so she could blister his ears with the truth of it. And if Sebastian were standing in my bedroom at this very moment, Esme thought, I would tell him that his attempt to imprint himself on my skin didn't work. That the only result of his exertions was an aching back and a desire to never see him again. She set her jaw to stop hot tears from running down her cheeks.

Of course, if his memories of that night were anything like hers, Sebastian might have trouble believing her. The solution would be to flirt madly in front of him. Perhaps do more than flirt. Why should he think—as he clearly did—that she was some sort of light-skirt who would allow him to waltz in and out of her bedchamber at will? Marriage would be the perfect solution. Especially if she married long before he wandered back from France and thought to pick up where he left off.

Perhaps she would marry Fairfax-Lacy, since her aunt had been kind enough to bring him to the house for precisely that purpose. Helene wasn't acting at all loverlike toward Fairfax-Lacy, and Esme had seen enough surreptitious lovers to recognize the signs. Or the lack thereof. So there was nothing—
nothing!
—to prevent her from taking such an eligible husband. Moreover, her mother would appreciate her marriage. Esme suspected that the only way on earth Fanny would receive her in public again would be if Esme remarried a man of the highest character. Sebastian certainly wasn't in that category. Not that she ever considered marrying him.

Fairfax-Lacy had a reputation for high moral fibre. And he was handsome too, in a sort of well-bred fashion. He didn't have Sebastian's raw beauty. But Fairfax-Lacy would make a perfect husband. A perfect, respectable husband whom her mother would
adore.
He would never leave her on the verge of giving birth.

That was the crux of it: Sebastian didn't seem to realize how frightening it was to give birth. He just didn't care enough to be frightened for her. Esme cried over that for a while and then, infuriatingly, found herself crying over her mother's similar lack of concern. Nobody cares, Esme thought savagely, conveniently forgetting Arabella and Helene. Not Sebastian, not Miles, not her own mother.

She didn't make it downstairs for luncheon, having dissolved into a humiliating, childish pit of despair. But by late afternoon, the hard little shell was back in place. Of course she wouldn't die in childbirth. She would be just fine. There was nothing she could do about the fact that Sebastian didn't love her as much as she wished. Better to forget it, push that fact away, not think about it. She rang her bell and asked Jeannie to prepare yet another cucumber poultice for her eyes.

By the time Esme descended the stairs in the evening, she had managed to channel an ocean's worth of rage and grief into one question: was Stephen Fairfax-Lacy indeed appropriate husband material? She didn't think he had Sebastian's ability to overlook her belly. He was unlikely to be attracted to her in her condition. But she could certainly make up her mind whether he was suitable for a life's worth of dinner conversations.

And so it was that Stephen Fairfax-Lacy, who strode into the dining room hoping against all hopes that a certain lady had decided to woo him, found, to his utter surprise, that his hostess appeared to have made that decision instead. And Lady Rawlings, nine months with child or not, was a formidable wooer.

Naturally, she was seated at the head of the table, but she placed him to her right. And Stephen had no sooner seated himself than Lady Rawlings leaned toward him with a very marked kind of attention. There was a sleepy smile in her eyes that would make any man under the age of seventy think of bed—nay, dream of bed. Yet it wasn't until Lady Beatrix Lennox was ushered into a seat across from him that Stephen began enjoying himself. As Bea sat down, Esme—as she'd asked him to call her—was showing him the intricate figures on the back of her fan. And he glimpsed something in Bea's face. Just enough to make him draw closer to Esme and bend his head over her fan.

He was, after all, an old hand at campaigning.

“Romeo and Juliet, are they?” he asked Esme, peering at the little figures painted with exquisite detail on the folds of her fan.

“Exactly. You see”—one of Esme's curls brushed his cheek—“there's Romeo below the balcony, looking up at Juliet. Bea, would you like to see it? The workmanship is quite elegant.”

The Marchioness Bonnington was sitting at Stephen's right. “Goodness, what a hen party!” she said briskly. “Why on earth didn't Arabella even out the numbers when she issued her invitations?”

Esme looked up, and her tone evened to a polite disinterest. “I can't say, Lady Bonnington. I believe that Earl Godwin will arrive tomorrow. His presence should ameliorate the situation.”

“Humph,” Lady Bonnington said. “Least said of that reprobate, the better. So what's on that fan you are regarding so closely, Lady Beatrix?”

Bea blinked down at the fan. “Romeo and Juliet,” she murmured. There was something odd happening here. She glanced across the table while pretending to examine the fan. Esme's impending child was hidden beneath the tablecloth, which meant that she looked like any other gloriously beautiful woman in London—except there were very few women who could match Esme. And to all appearances Esme had decided to seduce Stephen Fairfax-Lacy.
Her
Stephen. In fact, Esme presumably had decided to follow her aunt's advice and
marry,
not seduce, Stephen. Of course she wasn't thinking of seduction, given her delicate condition.

The realization gave Bea a most peculiar sinking feeling. Esme's hair was caught up in a loose topknot; fat, silky curls caressed her shoulders and cheeks. She wore a gown of French violet silk cut very low in the bosom and very short in the sleeves. But more importantly, she was burning with a kind of incandescent sensual beauty.

“Romeo and Juliet, did you say?” Lady Bonnington barked.

“The balcony scene,” Bea explained, pulling herself together and handing over the fan. She didn't want to woo Stephen. Therefore, it hardly mattered if Esme decided to do so. “I've always thought it was an absurd scene.”

“How so?” Stephen asked, one dark eyebrow raised.

Bea blinked, trying to see what it was about the man that drove all the women in his vicinity to hanker after him. He was handsome, but she'd seen better. Somewhere. He was waiting for a reply, so she shrugged. “Romeo stands below, wailing up at Juliet like a pining adolescent.”

“That seems a bit harsh. He is in love.”

“He only met the woman twenty minutes earlier. But you're right, he thinks he's in love. The funny part, to my mind, is when Juliet suddenly says: do you plan to marry me, and if so, where?”

Esme grinned. “How extraordinary. I read the play, of course, but I never realized that Juliet proposed to him.”

“‘
If that thy bent of love be honorable,
'” Bea quoted, “‘
thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow.
'” Juliet bluntly asks him to marry her, although he hasn't said a word on the subject previously.”

Esme's eyes flicked to Stephen with a meaningful laughter that made Bea's stomach twist. She was
so
beautiful! It was almost too much to bear. Bea could paint her cheeks the color of the rainbow, but she could never reproduce that flair of raw sensuality that Esme had just tossed in Stephen's direction.

“I saw a hilarious parody of the balcony scene once,” Esme was saying, her voice a glorious, husky alto.

“Oh?” Stephen bent toward her, his eyes bold and appreciative.

Naturally, Bea thought. Given the pick of the three women in the house, Helene, herself and Esme, what man wouldn't choose Esme?

“This Juliet almost threw herself off the balcony in her eagerness to join Romeo,” Esme remarked. Her eyes seemed to be speaking volumes. Bea considered pleading a sick stomach and leaving the table.

The Marchioness Bonnington had been examining the painted fan; she put it down with a little rap. “That sounds very unlike Shakespeare.”

“Do share it with us,” Stephen said.

If he got any closer to her shoulder, he could start chewing on her curls, Bea thought. Just like the goat.

“I only remember a line or two,” Esme said, and her crimson lips curled into a private smile for Stephen, so seductively potent that Bea felt it like a blow.

“Romeo stands below the balcony, bellowing at Juliet,” Esme continued. “And she says ‘Who's there?'”

Stephen had just caught a tantalizing glimpse of Bea's eyes. She looked…pained. Stricken? That was too strong. He deliberately returned Esme's smoldering gaze with one of his own. “And what does Romeo reply?” He pitched his voice to a deep purr.

Esme flashed a smile around the table. “I do hope this won't embarrass any of you.”

“I doubt it,” Lady Bonnington said sourly. “After the astonishments of the last month, I consider myself fairly unshockable.”

“The scene takes place in the early morning, if you remember. Juliet says, ‘
Who, Romeo? O, you're an early cock in truth! Who would have thought you to be so rare a stirrer?
'” Esme said it with dulcet satisfaction.

There was a moment of silence and then Stephen roared with laughter. “I'll warrant you Romeo clambered up the vine as fast as he was able!”

“She wouldn't allow him to do so,” Esme said. Her eyes were sparkling with mischief, and she had a slim hand on Stephen's arm. “The next line was something like this: ‘
Nay, by my faith, I'll keep you down, for you knights are very dangerous if once you get above.
'”

Stephen laughed again, and then tilted his head toward Esme and murmured something in her ear. Obviously, it was a comment meant for her alone. Likely something about
getting above
. Bea chewed very precisely and swallowed her beef. Perhaps Arabella would allow her to return to London on the morrow. It wasn't that she was jealous, because she wasn't. It was just that no man could resist Esme, and certainly not Stephen, who had frankly told her that he hoped to marry. Slope was bending down at Esme's shoulder, interrupting her tête-à-tête with Stephen. Bea looked back at her beef. She liked Esme. She really did.

“My lady,” Slope said quietly into Esme's ear. “We have an unexpected guest.”

“All right,” Esme said, only half listening. She'd forgotten how much fun flirting was. She was actually enjoying herself. She hadn't thought about wretched, wretched Sebastian for at least a half hour. Arabella was right. Stephen Fairfax-Lacy was charming, and he had a ready wit. He was fairly handsome. She had almost decided to marry him. Of course, first she had to make certain that Helene didn't want him for herself.

Slope, seeing that the unexpected guest in question had followed him into the dining room, although his mistress hadn't yet noticed, straightened and announced, “The Marquess Bonnington.”

Esme's head jerked up. There he was.

No gardener ever wore a pearl gray coat of the finest broadcloth, with an elaborately tied cravat of a pale, icy blue. He looked every inch a nobleman, from the top of his elegantly tousled hair to the tips of his shining Hessians.

There were murmurs all down the table. The scandalous marquess had returned from the Continent! Or from the garden, if only they'd known.

She met his eyes, and there was a flare of amusement in them that made her smoldering rage burst into flame. No doubt he thought to simply return to her bedchamber. Without giving a thought for her reputation, for her child's reputation, for her future.

“Ah, Bonnington,” his mother said. “There you are.” She sounded as if he'd been to a horse race rather than exiled to the Continent.

But he waited, as polite as ever, for his hostess's acknowledgement. Esme's hands clenched into fists. How
dare
he think he could simply come and go in her house, just as he had walked into her bedchamber at Lady Troubridge's house?

“Lord Bonnington,” she said, inclining her head. “How can it be anything other than a pleasure to see you, after so many months.” She reached over and put a hand on Stephen Fairfax-Lacy's shoulder. He had broad shoulders. She was almost certain that he would be as good a lover as Sebastian. He certainly would be less exhausting.

Fairfax-Lacy looked up, and Esme smiled down at him brilliantly. “Marquess Bonnington has joined us just at the very moment I was to make an important announcement. May I introduce my fiancé, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy?”