Beguiling the Beauty (21 page)

“Give my respects to Martin, will you?”

“That I will do—in abundance.”

V
enetia threw off her covers and left her bedroom. She didn’t mind tossing and turning, but the ache in her breasts—an unfamiliar tenderness around the areolas—disconcerted her. She’d had her heart broken before, but this time her wretchedness had increasingly translated into miscellaneous discomforts and eruptions of bile that had nothing to do with lovesickness.

And she was so tired. Despite all the thoughts in her head swarming like locusts, she’d fallen asleep after tea. After
tea
, when she’d never napped in her entire life, and certainly not at that strange hour.

She padded down the stairs. In Fitz’s study, there was an encyclopedia with an entry on fossilized footprints. Hers were in storage—God forbid Christian should find out that Mrs. Easterbrook had acquired such an object. A picture in a book was hardly the same thing, but she had no other mementos. And she needed to be reminded that he used to actively campaign for the pleasure of her company, that her continued presence in his life had mattered as much as the sun’s daily climb from the eastern horizon.

But Fitz was already in the study, clad in only his
shirtsleeves, a Cresswell & Graves bottle of champagne cider and a glass by his elbow.

“Can’t sleep again, Venetia?”

She took the chair opposite his. “Slept too much after tea. What are you—”

She forgot what she was about to say as she saw the small smear on the front of his shirt. “Is that blood?”

“Hastings’s.”

“Why do you have Hastings’s blood on you?”

“Long story. Anyway, I had a tête-à-tête with Andrew Martin.”

“With your fist?”

“I’d planned to, but it would have been like punching the Easter Hare.”

Mr. Martin did have one of those eternally innocent faces. “So what did you do?”

“I pointed out to him the risks to Helena. That if we can find out, so can others. That if he loves her, he must stay away from her.”

“You think he would?”

“He seemed contrite enough. In any case, I told him that if he gave me the least cause for suspicion, I’d remove his—pardon my language—stones.” Fitz fetched another glass and poured champagne cider in both. “Now you, Venetia.”

“Me?”

“Your stomach can’t be upset from the turbot. I watched you: You cut the filet and moved the pieces about but you didn’t eat any of it.”

“Maybe it was something else.”

“Maybe it is.”

Why did she have the feeling that Fitz was not
speaking of another item at dinner? “I think I’ll take myself back to bed.”

As she reached the door, Fitz asked, “He is not married, is he?”

Without turning around, she said, “If you speak of the Duke of Lexington, I am fairly certain he is not.”

“I don’t mean him.”

A stroke of pure genius—if she did say so herself. Now she could answer in all honesty, “Then I don’t know who you mean.”

C
hristian tossed aside yet another crumpled piece of paper.

He relished writing to his beloved—a bit of his day, a thought here and there, almost as if he were speaking to her. But tonight those few lines had been impossible to write.

What could he say?
When I saw Mrs. Easterbrook, I fell instantly under her spell again. You will be pleased to know that once I remembered myself, all was well. But until then, you were the furthest thing on my mind?

He could exclude any mention of Mrs. Easterbrook. After all, he’d visited the Savoy and discussed her with the dowager duchess—more than enough to fill a letter of moderate length. But that would be lying by omission.

It was unthinkable to lie to his beloved.

   
My Darling,

A test came today in the form of Mrs. Elsewhere, and I cannot say I passed: I am not as immune to her
charms as I had declared. I have not done anything for which I must ask for your forgiveness, but I find it difficult to justify the direction of my thoughts.

I need you. If my weakness is exacerbated by the distance that separates us, it may be logically deduced then that your presence will fortify my every strength.

Come soon. You can easily find me.

Your devoted servant,

C.

M
illie sliced open the first letter in her pile of morning post.

“My dear, I have it on good authority,” she said, still scanning the page, “that you broke poor Letty Smythe’s heart.”

Venetia and Helena had asked for breakfast to be sent up to their rooms. Millie and Fitz had the breakfast parlor to themselves, allowing for a more private conversation.

“That is a vicious and groundless rumor,” answered Fitz, smiling. “I have, however, stopped sleeping with her.”

“Exactly what I meant.”

“Rather unfair of the rumormongers, don’t you think, to always cast me in the role of the unfeeling villain? It was a pleasant interlude that ran its course.”

“Does Mrs. Smythe think so?”

“Mrs. Smythe will come to agree with me.”

Millie shook her head, as if they were but discussing a
misbehaving puppy. “I am not one to gloat, but I told you that you shouldn’t have taken up with her.”

“And I should have followed your advice.”

“Thank you. May I suggest Lady Quincy? She is pretty, well-spoken, and, most important, sensible: She will not make a fool of herself when your affair ends.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is there something you find objectionable about Lady Quincy?”

“Nothing. But my affairs run what, three, four months? It would be disrespectful of me to come to you while I am also enjoying another lady’s favor.”

The pact. It was the first time in years the subject had come up. She spread a heaping spoonful of marmalade over her toast and hoped she looked as nonchalant as he did. “Oh piffle. We are an old married couple. Go ahead and have your fun. I can wait.”

“I disagree,” he said evenly. “Duty first.”

Their gaze held. A sharp bolt of heat struck her. She looked away to the pile of letters still to be opened and picked up the one on top. “Oh well, as you wish, then,” she said, slicing the envelope open with a flick of her letter knife.

At first she only pretended to read. But the words somehow leaped off the page and forced her to pay attention.

She read the letter once, twice, three times before letting it drop.

“I am afraid I have some bad news, Fitz.”

V
enetia could not remember the last time she’d vomited.

Yet just now, the smell of a slice of buttered toast, an
item that had featured daily on her plate since she first sprouted teeth, had thrown her insides into such a state of convulsion that she’d hastily retreated to the nearest water closet and there spent a wretched few minutes surrendering the contents of her stomach.

She scrubbed her mouth and washed her face. When she came out of the water closet, she nearly collided with Millie. Millie, the mildest person she knew, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along.

“What’s the matter?”

“We’ll talk in your room,” Millie said, opening Venetia’s door.

They were greeted by the sight of Helena frantically searching Venetia’s armoire.

“I gave your jacket to your maid,” Venetia said. “She’s probably cleaning it.”

“I’d better go take a look.” Helena headed toward the door. “She might not know the proper way of doing it.”

“Forget your jacket for now, Helena,” said Millie, closing the door. “Venetia, you might like to sit down.”

Venetia did—something in Millie’s voice unnerved her. “What is it?”

“Lady Avery was at the Duke of Lexington’s lecture.”

Venetia gripped the arms of her chair, light-headed with horror.

Helena braced a hand on Venetia’s bedpost, as if she had trouble supporting her weight. “The one at Harvard?”

Which
else
?

“She was in Boston the same time we were, attending the wedding of her son’s American brother-in-law,” said Millie. “She returned day before yesterday. Last night she
dined at her niece’s place and told everyone at table what the duke had said.”

And the ladies at dinner would have gone on to the night’s dances and balls, the gentlemen to their clubs, and word would have spread like the bubonic plague.

The nausea came again. Except this time there was nothing left in Venetia. She clenched her teeth until it passed. “Do they all think he was speaking of me?”

“Many do.”

“Do they believe him?”

“Not everyone is convinced,” Millie said carefully.

That meant some were.

“He is the most eligible bachelor in the realm,” continued Millie. “You are our most beautiful woman. For him to accuse you so—even the possibility of it is beyond sensational.”

Venetia felt as if she were chest deep in quicksand.

Helena looked as miserable as Venetia had ever seen her. “This is all—”

She stopped short of saying this was all her fault. To do so would have been to admit that her sisters had cause to take her out of the country.

Venetia rose. “He was quite indiscreet in Boston—perhaps he thought he could afford to be, since he was far from home. But I’m sure he has since realized his error. A man such as he has no interest in brewing tempests in teapots.”

“That’s quite a complimentary view you take of him,” said Fitz, who had come into the room to stand beside his wife.

“My opinion of him should have no bearing on my assessment of the situation. I believe he will be almost as
displeased about the rumors as we are and will do nothing to add to them.”

“His silence will be just as problematic,” Helena pointed out. “He has to denounce the rumors as untrue.”

“That will require him to lie. He will not do that for me.”

“Then what?”

“This will be a test to see whether my friends are truly my friends. If they are, they will close ranks around me and not allow anyone to question either my conduct or my moral fiber.”

“I will make sure my friends fall in line,” said Fitz quietly.

“It is rather last-minute, but we should have no problem giving a dinner for forty tomorrow night—a rallying of the troops,” added Millie.

“Good,” said Venetia. “The Tremaines are hosting a ball tomorrow night. After your dinner, we will all of us attend.”

“And between now and then, we should make sure to be seen as much as possible,” said Helena. “And don’t forget to visit your modiste. You will want to devastate everyone in your path—in the most enjoyable manner, that is.”

“Yes, I believe I’ve just the thing,” Venetia murmured.

She’d discovered during her marriage to Tony that looking perfect was often enough to convince people that she was happy. Her appearance tomorrow would leave no doubt that she was in command of every aspect of her life.

A silence fell. Millie and Fitz were certainly each thinking of the specifics of what they needed to accomplish. As for Helena, Venetia had no idea what went through Helena’s
mind these days. She hoped Helena wasn’t again blaming herself. If anything, she was grateful for Helena’s indiscretions—it had brought her the most wonderful week of her life.

“I’ll be all right,” she said.

Hell-bent on escape, she had not quite realized it at the time. But the worst had already happened: She had lost the man she loved.

Everything else was but ashes from the fire.

B
ecause Christian did not frequent the London Season, Society had an exaggerated idea of the amount of time he spent gallivanting abroad. But he was rarely away more than four months out of the year. The rest of the time he looked after his inheritance.

The de Montforts had been a lucky clan. Other families just as prominent now held land and properties worth next to nothing. But the de Montforts happened upon quarries, mines, waterways, and tracts coveted by generations of builders. Directly and indirectly, through older holdings and newer ventures, Christian was responsible for the livelihoods of six hundred men and women. He educated their children and supported longtime retainers in their retirement.

His income was tremendous, but his expenses were also breathtaking. For that reason, he’d always approached meetings with his agents and solicitors with the utmost alertness. Today his attention lasted long enough to approve of a plan to petition the Shah of Persia for a concession to search for petroleum on the latter’s land.

After that, he barely heard what the roomful of men had to say.