Mistress by Marriage (11 page)
Chapter 9
The tabbies of the ton called him The Thief of Hearts, but in truth, he had not one of his own to steal.—The Thief of Hearts
A
ndrew Rossiter was stealth itself. He slipped from the bed in the darkened room, glancing back at Sir George and Lady Everdeen, both sated, both snoring. There would be a cuckoo in the Everdeens’ nest if he’d been successful tonight, not that he cared. They paid him enough just for his pleasure. To be a sort of conduit, a job he’d had much experience with, the only job he’d really ever had. When he took up with Caroline and Nicky Parker, they’d put him on his crooked path, although that had not been their intention. He had discovered his dual nature in pleasing them both and decided why limit oneself to only half the population? Andrew looked like an angel with gold curls and October sky eyes, but knew he was the devil himself.
ndrew Rossiter was stealth itself. He slipped from the bed in the darkened room, glancing back at Sir George and Lady Everdeen, both sated, both snoring. There would be a cuckoo in the Everdeens’ nest if he’d been successful tonight, not that he cared. They paid him enough just for his pleasure. To be a sort of conduit, a job he’d had much experience with, the only job he’d really ever had. When he took up with Caroline and Nicky Parker, they’d put him on his crooked path, although that had not been their intention. He had discovered his dual nature in pleasing them both and decided why limit oneself to only half the population? Andrew looked like an angel with gold curls and October sky eyes, but knew he was the devil himself.
Except—yesterday he’d had a most discomfiting interview with a stiff-necked barrister informing him he was about to be sued by stiffer-necked Edward Christie. A substantial sum had been offered for his cooperation, but he’d suddenly discovered he had some scruples. Caro was unaccountably dear to him, rather like a first or second love if one were to be so maudlin, and he wasn’t sure it was in her best interests to perjure himself. Certainly he’d fucked her, and certainly he’d
tried
to fuck her after her marriage to that dead bore Christie, but it wasn’t the same thing. As far as Andrew knew, despite his concerted efforts, she’d never broken her marriage vows. The poor girl was simply desperate to become like everybody else, saddling herself with a cold fish, three brats, and a house in the country. Poor Caro. It was like snuffing out a bright-burning candle.
tried
to fuck her after her marriage to that dead bore Christie, but it wasn’t the same thing. As far as Andrew knew, despite his concerted efforts, she’d never broken her marriage vows. The poor girl was simply desperate to become like everybody else, saddling herself with a cold fish, three brats, and a house in the country. Poor Caro. It was like snuffing out a bright-burning candle.
He’d made her life worse—out of pique. If he were the sort to feel shame about anything, it would be the day Edward Christie caught them in their negotiations. Andrew had not cared for the man’s attitude or assumptions. He had said some things that were better left unsaid. The packet of letters he tossed Christie out of spite was the final nail in their dead marriage’s coffin.
The letters were conveniently undated. Not so convenient for Caro. She’d been plunked down on Jane Street almost immediately but refused to see him. His name would never be on the famous list the guards kept to ward off undesirables, and Andrew was as undesirable as they came. He’d spent the past five years insuring that.
Now it seemed Caroline Christie’s happiness rested in his dirty hands.
Andrew got dressed in the dark, let himself out of the Everdeens’ townhouse and walked to his bachelor lodgings. He preferred accommodations in his clients’ houses, but the Everdeens paid his rent, so he was going home to
think
, not a commonplace occurrence. Best not to, when thoughts would turn to Nicky Parker and that last night.
think
, not a commonplace occurrence. Best not to, when thoughts would turn to Nicky Parker and that last night.
Poor Nicky, he hadn’t even gotten killing himself right. He’d lived a week, sightless, deaf to his sister’s cries, a permanent look of childlike wonder on his face until the end. Andrew had done the right thing, the humane thing. Caroline didn’t blame him for it. She knew he did it for her.
It meant he’d lost both of them that night, something he thought he could live with. Most of the time he managed, and managed well. He had the morals of an alley cat and, like a cat, the ability to land on his feet. He wasn’t so sure about the nine lives—he fancied he’d exceeded that limit already.
He ambled down the street in the gray dawn, perfectly at home as the nightwalkers disappeared from corners and sought their beds. The decent city was just waking as the indecent craved sleep. The echo of his footsteps joined with the jostling of carts on the cobbled streets and the raising of windows to let what passed for fresh air in. He caught sight of a pretty red-haired maid through the glass of a second story window and tipped his hat. He still had a weakness for redheads.
Andrew let himself into his rooms and stripped off his neckcloth. Fucking for a living was surprisingly arduous work, and he treated himself to a brandy for breakfast. The Everdeens’ generosity had not included the services of a valet, but Andrew didn’t mind much. He could be himself in his comfortable rooms, no need of posturing or propriety. His library, what there was of it, had recently been enhanced with a purchase of part of an amazing collection from a notoriously wicked baron. The illustrations provided Andrew with enough fodder to get him through the mechanics of coupling—make that tripling—with George and Laura Everdeen.
He took down a heretofore unexplored volume but lost interest after the first few pages. He was proficient enough to have penned the manual himself. There were only so many ways humans could interlock in that age-old puzzle. Perhaps he should rustle up a bit of cheese and bread, go to the communal bathing chamber and have a good soak. He had nothing much to do until tonight, when the Everdeens would expect him to service them again.
His bed, still unmade from the previous day, called to him instead. Within seconds he was naked beneath the sheets, within minutes fast asleep as only the truly wicked could be. He’d squelched whatever was left of his conscience for later examination and was deep in slumber when rapid knocking roused him. With a curse, he turned, pulling the covers up over his ears. The steady tattoo at the door was impossible to ignore.
It couldn’t be bill collectors. Old George had been most dependable, settling Andrew’s few accounts per their agreement. Andrew was careful nowadays anyhow. One never knew how long one would go between engagements. His services were not universally recognized or appreciated, but he had quite a little nest egg saved. He planned to spend the winter in Italy, where the weather was milder and the morals somewhat wilder.
Andrew smiled despite his irritation. If it was that plaguey lawyer of Christie’s again, he deserved everything that was about to come to him. It would teach him to disturb a man two days running before the sun hit its apex. Andrew strutted to the door naked, his most superior expression firmly in place. Let Maclean be so startled he’d lose the gift of speech.
It was Andrew who was surprised. Edward Christie was on his doorstep, looking much like a wind-blown scarecrow, his clothing wrinkled, his usually slick-backed dark hair disordered, a day’s growth of beard softening his long jaw. For the first time Andrew could understand what Caroline saw in him—untidy, he was altogether delicious. But boring as hell, Andrew reminded himself, as he swept a well-muscled arm toward his chamber.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Lord Christie,” he said smoothly. “Come in. As you see, you’ve caught me at a disadvantage. Please make yourself comfortable while I find my dressing gown.”
Christie blanched, looking everywhere about the room save at Andrew’s gloriously naked self, and Andrew couldn’t resist deepening his discomfort. “Tell me. Do you think my exercise regimen has been beneficial?”
Christie made a choking sound, and Andrew winked one of his bright blue eyes. He was being outrageous, he knew, but the temptation was irresistible. Edward did not look one bit amused, however, so he quickly stepped into his small bedroom and retrieved his robe from where he’d tossed it days ago. He’d have to clean up a bit before his charwoman came, but on the whole he was relatively satisfied with his abode. It wasn’t as if he entertained there, although the interview with Edward Christie might prove entertaining.
Andrew found him standing like a marble statue over the abandoned book. If the baron had picked it up out of curiosity, he’d put it down in a hurry. Andrew chose the most comfortable chair and sat. “Now then. Do sit down. How may I help you?”
Christie remained upright, his countenance rather fearsome if one were to pay close attention. “Sir William Maclean came to see you at my behest yesterday.”
“Yes, he did. I’m afraid I did not answer his questions in precisely the manner he hoped for. Have you come to try your hand at the inquisition?” He reached for the brandy bottle and splashed some into his used glass. “I don’t expect you’d like to join me in a drink.”
“Certainly not.”
“Oh, save the curling lip for someone who cares. You can’t shame me, Christie. I’m beyond all that nonsense.” He took a swallow, hoping the warm golden liquid would steady him. Despite his bold words, having Christie stand in his modest parlor was disconcerting. “Make your case and then get out. I’ll listen for a while.”
He leaned back, watching as Edward twisted his long fingers nervously. The room was dim and still, the heavy curtains shutting out the light and London noise. After an age, Edward lowered himself to the sofa.
“Five years ago, I found you with my wife. You said some things—” His face looked pained.
Andrew couldn’t quite remember everything he’d said, but was sure he’d said too much. Or not enough, depending on one’s viewpoint.
“You want to know if I fucked her. Yes, I did.” Andrew felt triumphant as Christie’s pale face paled further. “But not that day. Not, in fact, any day since she married you. And not the year or three before that, when she was under the thumb of that wretched cousin of hers and his wife. Terrible people. I believe we can agree on that at least. It was no wonder she jumped at your offer to marry her. You saved her, Christie, even if you didn’t set her world on fire. She was going mad, you know. Imagine a girl like Caroline, buried alive with those horrible people in the middle of nowhere. At least when Nicky was still with us we tried to make it amusing for her.” He swallowed more brandy. Christie’s face might have been carved of stone, impervious to insult. Despite his robe, Andrew shivered at the palpable cold leaching across the room.
“So you see, if you are to abide by strict legalities—cross all those Ts and dot all those Is your barrister friend Maclean seems so fond of—you haven’t really got a case for adultery. It looked bad, I admit. If I’d had a few more minutes to persuade her, I have no doubt I would have been successful. She was incredibly unhappy, you know.”
“I know.”
Andrew could barely hear the admission or see Christie’s chiseled lips move. The man had a fine mouth, but seemed entirely passionless. Poor Caro. “So you understand my reluctance to lie and assist you with your divorce petition.”
“You want more money.”
Andrew waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t insult me, sir. Even men like me have their standards. I’m very fond of Caro, for old times’ sake if nothing else. If it’s in her best interests to unshackle herself from you, then I’ll cooperate. But I’d need to hear it from her.”
“You’re not to go near her.” There was no mistaking the passion in his voice. Christie looked like a mad prophet rising from the sofa, his fists bunched.
“Sit down, man. The time to hit me is five years past. I have no interest in you breaking my nose. My face is my fortune, you know.” Andrew hoped he sounded nonchalant, but the reality of it was that he was extremely sorry he ever opened his door. Christie stood over him, radiating fury. “Let’s discuss this as gentlemen. Surely you have talked to your wife about all this. I fail to see why you’re here.”
“There is more to it than what she has said—or what you have said. I want to hear the whole of it.”
Andrew picked at a loose thread on his cuff. “I don’t believe you do. Let it rest, Christie. Your wife and I were lovers when we were very young. She didn’t deserve my ill-treatment of her then, nor yours now. But if you mean to divorce her, you’ll have to do it without me.” He raised his eyes to Christie’s green glare. “I still have the slightest shred of honor left. Tell Caro hello, and that she has nothing to fear from me.”
Christie looked on the verge of saying something, but turned on his heel and left.
Andrew exhaled the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. Perhaps it was time to leave for Italy a bit sooner than he planned. Another week or two with the Everdeens and he could free himself from obligation. They were relentlessly insipid anyway, believing themselves to be naughty when all the while they were just mired in a ridiculous quest for the succession of a baronetcy. It wasn’t as if poor George was a duke, after all. If the child was a girl, they’d have to find another stud. Andrew was done.
He poured another few fingers of brandy into his glass and drank it down. Yes, it was time to leave for hillsides covered with flowers and balmy ocean breezes. Alessandro and his wife would be happy to receive him ahead of schedule. Andrew would see how much his golden-haired son had grown. Giulietta was anxious for a daughter, and Alessandro’s letters were ever more urgent, both for his wife’s needs and his own. The portly Alessandro was, quite simply, hopelessly in love with Andrew’s lean perfection and no one else would do.
He would write to them this very day, removing himself from any danger that Christie could conjure. Andrew was never anything less than practical when it came to his affairs, save that one time when he lost his soul.
Edward had visited friends in the Albany for years, it being the premier place for gentlemen who didn’t want the bother of a house in town, yet wanted amenities galore. There was a dining room, luxurious communal baths; even Angelo had his fabled fencing studio there. On the whole, the place was far too grand for scum like Andrew Rossiter, who had sprung up from who knows where. But today’s visit with the man had surprised him, so at odds with what Edward thought he once knew.
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