Seduced by a Scoundrel (16 page)

“You would admire Featherstone.”

The wealth of disdain in his voice caught her attention, as did his stern expression. “You knew him?”

“I make a practice of knowing the character of every man who frequents my club. And Featherstone didn’t know a moral from a mudhole.” Drake paused, his mouth twisted sardonically. “But of course he did have that impeccable pedigree.”

“He was a gentleman.”

“Then why did he live openly with his mistress, even after his marriage? She bore him three children.”

Alicia slowly set down the snuffbox. Sarah had known of his paramour, but was she aware of his second family? That her young son—the present duke—had natural half-siblings? “I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “You must have been misinformed.”

“I heard it from the duke himself. He was proud of his prowess.” Drake strolled closer. “So you see, my lady, you’re better off wed to me. At least I haven’t spawned any bastards.”

“Yet.” On that scathing remark, Alicia headed toward the connecting door and turned the knob.

Drake flattened his palm on the gilded panel. “The keys, my lady.”

He stood mere inches away. She could feel his body heat. How easily he could overpower her. Tightening her fingers around the ring, she refused to show any vulnerability. “I will have the one that fits this door.”

His eyes narrowed, concealing his thoughts. For a moment, she feared he would refuse, and she would be forced into an undignified tussle.

Then he gave a nod. “As you wish, then.” He took the ring, unscrewed the clasp, and extracted a key, which he passed to her. “But you’re a coldhearted woman, Mrs. Wilder.”

“You’re a tiresome devil, Mr. Wilder.”

She considered testing the key, then decided that might be pressing her luck. Entering her chamber, she glanced toward the hearth, where a fire now burned. The maid had gone.

Relieved, Alicia turned to shut the door. “Good day. Or shall I say, good night.”

His smooth expression took on a hard edge. “One more caution, dear wife. I doubt that Kitty fits your exacting standards. But you will not discharge her. That is an order.”

Then he closed the door on Alicia’s startled face.

Chapter Twelve

A short while later, Alicia stepped out of her bedchamber and encountered another surprise.

Intending to spend the day acquainting herself with the household, she had donned a gown of ice-blue muslin that fell in a straight line from her bosom. For the sake of modesty, she had tucked a length of Brussels lace into the bodice. She felt armored and calm again, ready to face the world.

Though she couldn’t forget Drake, presumably asleep next door.

This morning, when he’d entered her bedchamber, he had shattered her sense of security—a false security, she now knew. Though she had hidden the second key beneath the papers in her writing desk, she was uneasily aware that he could procure another if the mood suited him. That meant she must never lower her guard.

Not even his defense of Kitty proved him trustworthy. Granted, he knew the servant was deaf. But compassion hadn’t prompted his protectiveness toward the maid. Like the autocrat he was, he enjoyed exercising his power over his wife.

Let him. She would do as she saw fit—

That was when she noticed the army of footmen trooping in and out of her mother’s bedchamber. They carried towering piles of boxes.

Puzzled, Alicia joined the procession into the bright, yellow and white chamber. The curtains had been drawn back to a view of the green park, and both beds had been tidied. Mama and Mrs. Philpot were nowhere to be seen.

Directed by a short, barrel-chested man in a cherry-red coat and blue pantaloons, the footmen marched into the dressing room. “Have a care, you clumsy oaf,” he proclaimed in a startlingly deep, dramatic tone. “This is no delivery from the ragman.”

Alicia hurried toward him. “Sir? What is going on here?”

“Ah, the lady of the house.” He swept a bow so low she could see the bald circle crowning his skull. When he straightened, he rocked back and forth on his heels and regarded her with an air of self-importance. “Permit me to introduce myself, my lady. I am Signor Renaldo, master of wardrobes for the Royal Theatre.”

“Theater?” Perplexed, she peered into the dressing room, past the footmen depositing the boxes and the maidservants unpacking them. Garments and shoes and gloves littered the green carpet with its pattern of yellow ribbons. The armoires and cupboards and clothespresses stood open like great mouths waiting to consume a feast.

At the far end of the long room stood Mama, a voluminous red cloak enveloping her delicate form and a plumed cavalier’s hat perched on her head. Spying Alicia, she waved. “Ahoy, there. Climb aboard my pirate ship. We’re about to give chase to a Spanish galleon.”

“Dear heavens,” Alicia murmured under her breath.

Abandoning Signor Renaldo, she picked her way through the clutter, aghast to see piles of wigs and mounds of costumes, from Roman togas to medieval tunics to witch’s robes. On the dressing table, a chest full of paste jewelry glinted in the sunlight. Had Mama, in a moment of mad indulgence, ordered these theatrical props and charged them to Drake’s account?

Mrs. Philpot straightened up from the trunk she’d been rummaging through. She handed Lady Eleanor a black silk sash. “For you, my captain.”

The countess tied the sash around her slender waist. She tucked a toy dagger into the belt and planted her feet wide as if she were balancing on the deck of a ship. “Beware, ye fainthearted dastards. I am Anne Bonny, queen of the high seas.”

Humoring her, Alicia snatched up a small cask brimming with fake coins, which she presented to her mother. “A tribute of gold doubloons, O Great Pirate Queen.”

“Ye may consider yerself under my protection,” Lady Eleanor said grandly, settling down on a chair to examine her treasure.

While her mother was preoccupied, Alicia drew Mrs. Philpot beyond a stack of boxes. “Did Mama order these things?” she whispered. “I fear they will all have to be returned before Mr. Wilder finds out.”

“Nay, my lady,” Mrs. Philpot said, her green eyes sparkling as she patted Alicia’s hand. “Everything you see here is a gift.”

“A gift? From whom?”

“Why, your husband, of course. Mr. Wilder knows how your mama likes to playact, and so he purchased these costumes from a theatrical company. They are your mama’s to keep. Is it not wondrously kind of him?”

“Oh … yes.”

Her legs weak, Alicia sank down onto a footstool and regarded her mother. Lady Eleanor had abandoned the coins to explore the contents of another box. She lifted out a gaudy crimson scarf and draped it around her neck. The delight on her gentle face warmed Alicia’s heart.

Drake had done this. He had brought joy into Mama’s life.

It was difficult to believe such generosity of a man who cared only for himself and his own pleasures. Yet she could find no selfish reason for his benevolence. The more she learned about her husband, the less she understood him. He was fast becoming an enigma to her. And she resented him for making her question her assessment of his character.

Alicia lifted her chin a notch. He was the villain who had lured Gerald to the gaming tables. He had used that debt to force her into marriage. He had stolen even the roof over their heads. With cold-blooded intent, he had manipulated their lives to his own purposes.

So let him have his little secrets. She didn’t care to unravel the mystery. Better she not think of him at all.

*   *   *

The crimson carpet muffling his footsteps, Drake strode down the wide passageway on his way to the staircase. The pale glow of the lamps enhanced his irritable mood. He had overslept. He should have left for the club hours ago.

Of course, Fergus would handle the bank, and his well-trained staff would cater to the whims of those members who arrived early, primed for a night at hazard or faro. But Drake prided himself on overseeing the play. Keen attention to detail had given Wilder’s a reputation for luxury and refinement.

After tossing and turning for hours, he had been plagued by restless dreams. He had awakened hard and frustrated, obsessed by his wife. The Lady Alicia. How soft and touchable she’d looked this morning, tousled from sleep. She had been naked beneath her nightdress, her breasts unbound. Though she’d pretended indifference, she’d wanted him; he’d seen the desire in her eyes, heard it in the way her breath caught whenever he touched her. He burned to strip away that cool superiority, to awaken the earthy passion she kept locked inside. He wanted her lying beneath him, moaning in ecstasy.…

Ah, hell. What he needed was a long, lusty session with his mistress. A pity he had discharged her with the gift of a diamond necklace. He could have been enjoying her eagerness to please instead of suffering the scorn of a woman who regarded him as dirt beneath her aristocratic feet.

She had accused him of carrying on with Liza Yates. The thought was darkly amusing. Of course, Alicia couldn’t know the real reason why the housekeeper was so possessive of him.

Rounding a corner, he took a shortcut through the darkened gallery, his heels ringing on the pale marble floor. Here he kept many of his acquisitions, the paintings and statues that proved his wealth. But tonight he took only peripheral notice of his surroundings. He reminded himself he should be reveling in the closeness of success.

Already Alicia had finagled an invitation to a ball. In a week’s time, he would insinuate himself into the
ton.
But not for the purpose she believed. He smiled grimly to think of Hailstock’s face when he realized he could no longer bar his bastard son from society.

“Oh!”

The quavering gasp came from the shadows. He turned sharply. In an alcove, a pedestal diplayed an alabaster statue of Diana the huntress. Behind the sculpture, a small cloaked form peeked out from the gloom.

A plumed cavalier’s hat topped the pale oval of a face. He recognized the costume from a production of
Blackbeard, or The Captive Princess.

“My lady,” he said, executing a deep bow. “Forgive me for startling you. Where is Mrs. Philpot this evening?”

Lady Brockway tiptoed out to regard him quizzically. Through the dimness, those fine-boned features bore a haunting resemblance to Alicia.

“Mr. Wilder?” Lady Eleanor asked, obviously in one of her saner moments. Ignoring his question about her companion, she stammered, “Oh, dear … for a moment there I thought … I thought you reminded me of someone.…”

Drake went ice cold.
Hailstock.

He had lulled himself into believing the similarities were too subtle to notice. Certainly Alicia had never seen a resemblance. But Lady Eleanor had known Hailstock for many years; she would remember him in his younger, more vigorous days, when he’d been closer in age to Drake.

The last thing Drake wanted was for anyone to guess the truth.

Stepping closer, he took her hands; they nestled like dainty birds in his palms. “Who, my lady?” he asked urgently. “Who do I remind you of?”

“Someone … years ago…” A quiver stirred the cloak around her small shoulders. “Oh, I’m so afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid … to remember…” Pulling her fingers free, she groped underneath the cloak, and he realized she wore that shabby moleskin cape. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she swayed, weeping as if her heart were broken.

Drake acted without thought. Sliding his arm around her, he held her close, and she burrowed into him, the cavalier’s hat tumbling to the floor. He drew out a clean handkerchief and pressed it into her fingers. He didn’t know how to soothe her. The crocodile tears of a mistress he could handle, but not the profound anguish of the dowager countess. His mother-in-law. Strange to think that.

Was she weeping because she feared Hailstock? Did she know that he had threatened to lock her away in Bedlam Hospital?

His jaw clenched, he said, “I assure you, my lady, you’ve no cause for distress. You’re safe in this house. Safe with me.”

Huddling her face against his chest, she took a shuddering breath, her sobs slowing. “Oh, but it is not I who needs protection.”

That jolted him. Who could she mean? Alicia?

“Look at me,” Drake said. Placing his forefinger beneath her chin, he nudged up her face. Silvering strands of blond hair framed her guileless features. Her eyes, like bruised pansies, blinked slowly, as if she struggled to place him. He sensed her withdrawing into herself, into her secret sorrow. Willing her to remain rational, he went on, “You must tell me who requires protection. It’s the only way I can help.”

Dabbing at her cheeks with his crumpled handkerchief, she mournfully shook her head. “No one can help. Alas, it is too late.”

“I don’t understand, then. Why are you still afraid?”

She gazed blankly at him. Then she patted his hand as if he were the one who needed comforting. “I like you,” she said in a musing tone. “You are a very kind man.”

He curbed his impatience. “My lady, please try to think. If someone has made a threat to you or to anyone dear to you, I should like to hear of it.”

Lady Eleanor reached inside her cloak and drew a toy dagger from her sash. “Threaten me? Why, no one would dare, sirrah. I am Anne Bonny, queen of the high seas.”

Frustration churned in Drake. The dreamy look in her eyes told him he would coax no more out of her. Hissing out a breath, he picked up her hat and presented it to her. “I believe this is yours, Madame Pirate.”

Lady Brockway donned the too-large hat, unmindful that the tapered ends lay low over her ears or that the white plume drooped over her eye. “Why, bless ye, sir. How do I look?”

“Fierce enough to terrorize Blackbeard himself.” He held out his arm. “Allow me to escort you to the lower deck. We’ll see if we can’t locate your shipmates.”

Giggling, she accepted his assistance, and they strolled out of the gallery and down the grand staircase to the formal rooms. Contentment radiated from her, a peace of mind quite opposite to the alarm that had troubled her only moments ago. He had the uncanny impression that fantasy was her refuge from unhappy memories, that perhaps her madness was the result of an unbearable event she had witnessed.