Candice Hern (34 page)

Mary laughed, amused as always by her companion's righteous outrage. "Victims, Olivia? Miss Carstairs appears as unlikely a victim as I have ever seen. Just look at her. She seems to be thoroughly enjoying herself." It was true. As she watched, Miss Carstairs was now laughing at something Lord Pemerton had said. This was indeed promising.

"I do not like it," Olivia said, tugging Mary along once again. "What possible interest can he have in a decent young woman like that, except... well, except... you know."

"Olivia!"

"Well, it is true. Only consider what happened to that poor Miss Kingston."

"It was never proved that Lord Pemerton was the father, Olivia. And you know as well as I do that Miss Kingston was no better than she should be. Besides, Lord Pemerton told me himself that the girl had to have been increasing before he even met her. He can count as well as the next person, you know."

Mary stumbled when her companion came to an abrupt halt.

"He
told
you?" Olivia's eyes grew wide with disbelief.

"Yes, of course."

Olivia stared at Mary in openmouthed astonishment. Mary chuckled and took her friend's arm once again and led her forward.

"I asked him," she said. Olivia's jaw dropped even further, if that was possible. "Well, I was curious" Mary shrugged nonchalantly. She wondered why this should be a matter of such concern. She and Lord Pemerton were friends, after all, and she had always felt that one should be able to speak openly with one's friends. Because Lord Pemerton had such an outrageous notoriety, she was sure most of the tales associated with him must be apocryphal. So she had asked, and had been shocked and delighted with the candor of his response.

Olivia's head snapped forward, and the rustle of stiff bombazine increased as she set a new pace to their leisurely stroll. Mary knew without looking that her friend's pleasant countenance was distorted by the tart pucker that had become more and more common since Mary's association with Lord Pemerton. For some reason, of all her supposedly unsuitable friends, Olivia had taken a particular dislike to Lord Pemerton. It was really most peculiar for Mary found him to be quite the most likable gentleman of her acquaintance.

Mary trailed along in silence, the polished wood floor echoing the fast clicking of her raised heels—always worn, though unfashionable, to provide her with extra height. The slightly narrow skirt of her pale blue silk gown—not to mention her shorter legs—caused some difficulty in keeping up with Olivia's long stride. After a few moments Olivia began to speak again and at the same time moderated her pace, to Mary's great relief.

"I know you say he is looking for a bride," Olivia said, "and for some unexplainable reason you have agreed to help him find one. But you know as well as I do that a man of his rank and fortune— despite his unspeakable reputation—can have his pick of Society misses. He does not need your help. I do not trust the man, and I believe he is simply using you and your list to add to his own list of conquests. Besides, he is well known for favoring more ... more ... well, more full-blown beauties than Miss Carstairs. Why should he single her out, if not for some illicit purpose?"

"I think she is quite pretty," Mary said. "She has a lovely, sweet face and all those glorious blond curls."

"Yes, a lovely, sweet and very round face," Olivia said. "Honestly, Mary, that man could not possibly favor her. Why, she is as plump as a guinea hen."

"Now, Olivia, I would not say she is precisely plump."

"Well, on her way there, in any case."

Mary cocked a brow at her elegantly slender companion, who ate like a bird because that was what ladies were supposed to do. Many a time Mary had noted Olivia's furrowed brow as she finished off a cream cake or other such delicacy, while Olivia left all but a single bite on her plate. And yet Mary's own tendency toward plumpness had never elicited a single disparaging remark from her companion. Mary knew that Olivia would rather cut out her tongue than criticize the physical imperfections of her employer. She knew that Olivia, like most people, felt sorry for her, for her plainness. She wished they would not. Mary did not feel sorry for herself, so why should anyone else?

Olivia caught Mary's eyes, blushed, and flashed a contrite look at her employer before lowering her eyes. "I beg your pardon, Mary," she said softly. "It is really none of my business why that man chooses to single out Miss Carstairs."

"He does it," Mary said, smiling and squeezing Olivia's hand, "because I asked him to." Their progress was interrupted by a sudden onrush of people—the music had ended and dancers were making their way from the dance floor. Unable for the moment to continue their stroll, Mary stopped and turned toward Olivia. "I told him that I thought they might suit, and he trusts my judgment."

"Well," Olivia said, "I hope you know what you are doing. But I still do not like it!"

"Do not like what, Mrs. Bannister?"

The deep voice coming suddenly from behind her caused Olivia to jump.

"I beg your pardon ladies," Lord Pemerton said, smiling wickedly and looking terribly elegant in his all-black evening clothes. "I did not mean to startle you."

"I thought you were with Miss Carstairs, my lord," Mary said.

Lord Pemerton extended his hand, and Mary placed her own in it and allowed him to tuck it into the crook of his arm. It was amazing how comfortable they had become with one another after so short an acquaintance.

Olivia did not accept the support of his other arm.

"I deposited Miss Carstairs with her chaperone," Lord Pemerton said, guiding Mary toward the refreshment table. "After such a lively dance I am feeling quite parched. Will you ladies join me in a glass of champagne?"

"That would be lovely," Mary said, smiling up at the marquess.

"Mrs. Bannister?"

"I would prefer punch, my lord."

"Of course." Lord Pemerton's eye caught Mary's, and he gave her a roguish wink. "If you will sit here," he said, indicating a recently vacated gilt bench, "I will only be a moment."

Mary and Olivia seated themselves and only had time to arrange their skirts before Lord Pemerton had returned. He handed a glass of chilled champagne to Mary and a cup of arrack punch to Olivia. He leaned negligently against the arm of the bench, supporting himself with a hand on its back. Mary could feel his hand brush against the curls at the nape of her neck as she turned to speak to him, causing a momentary tingle that she was quick to ignore.

"I was pleased to see you and Miss Carstairs getting along so well," she said. "You made a very handsome couple on the dance floor. She is quite lovely, is she not?"

"Miss Carstairs is all that is pleasing, my dear," he said, "but none can hold a candle to you this evening in that frothy blue confection." His fingers softly dragged along the neck of her gown for the briefest instant.

Mary was fascinated at how many ways he could touch a woman without anyone noticing. He was always doing it. Even Olivia was unaware of it, so adept was he at surreptitious contact. But then, he was a rake of some renown, after all. Such behavior was no doubt second nature to him, even with a woman such as herself. She grinned up at him, and he leered in return. Mary threw back her head and laughed.

* * *

Jack held his arms out for Jessop to remove his evening coat. He looked toward the door to his bedroom, standing slightly ajar, and caught a brief glimpse of ankle as Monique undressed. She was new to Drury Lane, and Jack had wasted no time in engaging her for the evening. He had settled with Phoebe a few nights earlier.

But there was business to attend to before pleasure.

"I need you to do another special job for me, Jessop," he said as the valet brushed out the evening coat.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Do you know anyone in the Carstairs household?"

"Carstairs ... Carstairs ... let me think," Jessop said as he hung up the coat in the open wardrobe. "Over on Portman Square?"

"Yes, I believe so," Jack said.

"I think I can manage something. The usual information?"

"Yes, yes," Jack said, impatiently eyeing the bedroom door as he heard the unmistakable creaking of his bed. "Miss Lillian Carstairs. How much will she bring? Cash, mind you. No restrictions. No protected trust funds out of reach of a future husband. And not tied up in property or other investments that would need to be disposed of."

"I know the routine, my lord," Jessop said with no little indignation.

It was not the first time Jack had used his resourceful valet to unearth pertinent information about a prospective bride. Jessop, too handsome for his own good, was able to charm his way into almost any housemaid's affections. It was never long before he knew all there was to know about the private lives of his paramour's employers. In fact, it had often occurred to Jack that he had enough salacious information to blackmail more than a few members of the
ton
, if it ever came to that. But even Jack would never sink to such tactics. After all, it would certainly be a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

No, he was more inclined to repair his miserable fortune in the time-honored manner: by marrying a rich woman. But he would be damned before he made his motives known. He could not bear the notion of being labeled a fortune hunter—the sort of pitiful, contemptible creature he and his friends had often made fun of over the years. He would rather die than know he was the object of such ridicule. The very idea sent an involuntary shudder through his body. So he used the wily Jessop to ferret out the information he needed. He did not have time to waste courting the wrong woman.

"I know I can trust you to do the job," Jack said, clapping his valet on the back. "Heaven help us both if anything ever happens to that pretty face of yours."

Jessop snorted with such disgust that Jack burst out laughing. The poor man hated to be reminded of his almost feminine looks. His pale skin and fair curly hair gave him a cherubic quality that women found irresistible. The face of an angel and the heart of a scoundrel, thought Jack. Much like himself—though he was, of course, no longer as handsome as he had once been. Nevertheless, that Jessop was cut from the same cloth as Jack had made him the perfect valet. They understood one another.

"There is also a Miss Dorothea Langley-Howe I would be interested in knowing a bit more about," Jack said in an offhanded way as he removed his brocaded waistcoat.

"Oh, I've heard of her, my lord," Jessop said. "Quite a beauty, I'm told. You'll have a bit of competition for that one."

"No doubt. All the more reason to determine the lay of the land before I waste any time on her."

"I'll see what I can do," Jessop said as he picked up the waistcoat that Jack had tossed on the floor.

"Thank you" A look of understanding passed between Jack and his valet. Jessop gave a nod and returned to his work.

"I'll just be off to the King's Head, then," Jessop said as he hung Jack's waistcoat in the wardrobe. "One of m' chums in Portman Square owes me a favor. I assume you won't be needing me any longer this evening?" He cocked his head toward the bedroom door.

"Go on, Jessop," Jack said as he sat down to remove his stockings. "Get out of here."

"Yes, my lord. But I'll be back before dawn to escort the lady out." Jessop carefully folded the hastily discarded satin breeches and placed them in a drawer. In addition to his other useful qualities, the man was obsessively neat, a convenient counterpoint to his employer's somewhat untidy nature. Apparently satisfied that all was in order, he closed the wardrobe door, gave a sharp nod to Jack, and left the dressing room.

"At last!" Jack muttered as he turned toward the bedroom. Standing in the middle of the dressing room, wearing only his shirt, he yawned hugely and stretched like a cat. He wondered if he could pretend that the voluptuous, red-haired Monique was the very rich (he hoped), very plump Miss Carstairs.

He sighed. Not a chance.

He pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it in a corner, and flung open the bedroom door.

Chapter 4

"Alone at last!" the marquess said as he moved to sit beside Mary. He balanced his teacup in one hand as he gracefully eased himself onto the silk brocade sofa. Mary bit back a grin as she noted the scowl on Olivia's face, wondering if it was because Jack had already stayed well beyond the acceptable half hour and was obviously not ready to leave, or because he chose to sit close to Mary rather than the opposite end of the sofa. She nodded toward his cup, and he passed it to her. She deftly dumped its remains in the slop dish, poured a precise amount of milk into the cup, and then reached for the teapot.

"Not quite alone, my lord," she said as she poured. "After all, Olivia is still with us." She slanted a look toward her companion before returning her attention to the tea. She held out the steaming cup to Lord Pemerton, raising her brows at the smoldering look he offered.

"Indeed, my dear," he said as he gazed at Mary, a flicker of amusement in his blue eyes, "I could not forget the estimable Mrs. Bannister." He turned toward that lady and raised his teacup in salute. "And," he said, turning back to face Mary, "I thought you had agreed to stop 'my lording' me." He cocked a questioning eyebrow.

Mary shrugged and reached across the tea table for Olivia's cup. It was true, they had lately dispensed with formalities, at least in private. Considering the nature of their joint project, it hadn't seemed appropriate to continue addressing each other as "my lord" and "my lady"; particularly as much of their conversation was at best immodest, and at worst downright improper. It was no wonder Olivia wore an almost permanent scowl. Poor woman. Mary was certain that scarce a day went by when Olivia's exquisite sensibilities were not offended.

"I simply meant," Jack continued, "that it is a relief to be alone with you two ladies—to be free at last of that stream of gaggling females. Good Lord, Mary! How do you stand it—all those insufferable, meddlesome old biddies? Why did you invite me for today, knowing I would be forced to suffer through such an ordeal? I had hoped to find you—and Mrs. Bannister, of course— alone. Instead, I walk into a room full of prattling females whose inane yammering created such a din that my head began to ache."