The Dangerous Viscount (12 page)

“Jack, eh? I can keep a secret, love, but if you want to be a Jack, I won’t argue with you. So,
Jack,
tell me about yourself.”

Sebastian hadn’t bargained on having to talk so much. That’s why he’d decided not to ask Tarquin for an introduction to one of the better class of courtesan. Harriette Wilson and her sisterhood expected to be wooed as well as paid, which sounded like too much trouble. Discreet inquiries at one of his clubs had steered him to
The Handbook to the Ladies of Covent Garden
(Covent Garden in this case describing a state of mind rather than geography), a volume that offered glowing descriptions of dozens of accommodating ladies.

He wondered if anything on which he’d based his careful selection of Miss Grandville was true. The episode was indeed beginning to resemble a farce, whether a cheap one remained to be seen.

Gingerly he took his place beside her, sitting straight up on the firm chaise, elbows hugged to his sides and hands placed awkwardly on his thighs. “Er, Miss Grandville …”

“Call me Ellie,” she said in a throaty voice.

“Ellie. If you are neither the daughter of a clergyman nor an aristocrat, who are you?”

She examined his face shrewdly. “I could give you another story, but you look like man who’d as soon hear the truth.”

“Yes,” he said.

“It won’t take long,” she said, “but we might as well get comfy.” And she took his hand and held it against her bosom. Though Sebastian felt silly and a
little embarrassed, he kept it there, wishing he were enjoying himself more.

“My father was an ostler,” Ellie said. “I was serving at the same inn when I caught a gentleman’s eye. I didn’t want to spend all my life in service, or marry a man like my father and work just as hard. My gent took me to London and set me up in rooms, quite proper.”

“Was he a wicked rake?”

“Oh no! A good sort. When he had enough of me he treated me decent. I have some money put away. I just need to work a few more years and I’ll have enough to get a little cottage somewhere and turn respectable. I’ve been lucky, I reckon. There’s not many girls that have choices in life.”

Sebastian felt a noise ascending his throat and quickly swallowed it. Lord, he missed “the grunt” as the all-purpose comment. A half-strangled “that sounds nice,” was the only response he could manage to this oddly dignified confession.

“I’ve always been clean, so you don’t have to worry about that. And I’ve kept myself out of the family way, except the once.” A barely perceptible quaver ran through the last three words, doubtless an intimation of a longer and perhaps sadder tale. He didn’t want to hear it. The woman had already become an individual to him, instead of a nameless member of a despised sex on whom he could unleash his poorly controlled desire. If he started feeling sorry for her, he’d never get the business done.

“It sounds like you know what you are doing,” he said and ventured to slide his fingers beneath the edge of her gown. He found a nipple. Rather like a
soft raisin. Interesting, but not particularly arousing. “Is it true you are competent in
instruction?
Was that part of your description accurate?”

She gave him rather a sweet smile. “I guessed you didn’t know much. Is this your first time then?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you right. And since the first time doesn’t usually last long, I’ll only charge you a guinea. If you want to do it again it’ll be two more. And I go up to five for anything unusual.”

Thanks to Tarquin’s library, Sebastian had a notion what she meant by “unusual.” On the page he’d found some of the ideas exciting. In Elise Grandville’s room they seemed unnerving.

“You’ll probably just want the ordinary,” she said. “I can tell you’re a bit anxious. Don’t you worry, you’re in good hands.” And she wasn’t speaking metaphorically. He found himself firmly clasped and discovered that his physical and mental reactions could be completely divorced from each other.

While his cock sprang to interested attention, his brain was telling him to run. He tried not to think with his head. Elise indeed knew her trade and plied it with clever hands until he feared for the seams of his fashionably snug trousers.

“Shall we?” she asked finally. She hadn’t attempted to unbutton him. For the bargain rate of a guinea he apparently had to take care of that task himself. “Let me get comfortable here and you come to me when you’re ready.”

He stood up and she arranged herself against the backrest and raised her skirts to reveal her legs, one stretched out straight along the seat of the couch,
the other bent with one foot on the floor. His fingers stopped without unfastening a single button.

Suddenly he knew he couldn’t do it. It was the sight of Ellie’s legs. There was nothing wrong with them. No doubt they were perfectly good, shapely female legs, clad in white stockings.

Not pink, white. And they didn’t look like silk.

And the legs weren’t
hers.
Diana’s.

He groped in the pocket of his coat and extracted a handful of gold coins. “Here,” he said.

“That’s too much. And you can pay me after.”

“No, take it. I’m sorry. I have to leave.” He dropped the guineas into her hand, fled for the door, and took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the street he stood for a minute or two, breathing heavily.

His eye caught the swinging sign of the bookshop across the way. It had been months since he’d been there and Sancho might have interesting new stock.

But his contrary brain, now it had removed him from the source of relief, was no longer arguing with his physical exigency. Sebastian was, to put it bluntly, hard, aching, and desperate. And only one woman could assuage it.

To hell with notions of honor that were doubtless antiquated. Diana Fanshawe had aroused a sleeping monster and she would have to pay the price.

Minerva had been looking out of the window while Diana conversed with the bookseller and her new acquaintance, a small blonde lady with untidy hair. Diana knew her sister was bored. She kept a wary eye on the girl. She didn’t trust her not to wander back to Bond Street, hoping to find something interesting,
like an errant MP escaped from Westminster.

As though on cue, Min opened the door and went onto the street, calling out to a passerby. Before Diana could retrieve her and read her a lecture on proper London behavior, Min was back.

“I just saw Mr. Iverley,” she announced.

“Iverley!” the blonde lady said in a tone of disgust. “Is he coming in here?”

“No, he went into a house across the street with a red door.”

“I’m sure it can’t have been Mr. Iverley,” Mr. Sancho said. “He wouldn’t be visiting
that
house. He hasn’t been in this shop for some months though he is, of course, a valued customer.”

“Of course,” murmured the blonde with a derisive air.

“I’m sure it was him,” Min insisted. “Tall and thin with spectacles. Though he looked different. More elegant. I suppose his dress is more à la mode when he’s in town.”

This time the lady unmistakably snorted. “Sebastian Iverley has never, to my certain knowledge, looked either elegant or fashionable. It cannot possibly have been him.”

“Is he a friend of yours?” asked Diana.

“Absolutely not. Of my husband’s, unfortunately. One area in which we disagree. We simply never discuss the man. I take it you are acquainted with the Great Woman Hater.”

“We met staying at Mandeville, his uncle the duke’s house.” She didn’t mention their more recent meeting, which had both hurt and perplexed her. “As a matter of fact, he’s the reason I’m here. I was
interested in what he told me of his book collection, so when I came to South Molton Street to visit the linen draper and saw the bookshop, I decided to come in and investigate.”

“Oh good! I must get you to join the Society of London’s Lady Bibliophiles. There aren’t nearly enough of us.”

“I never heard of such a group.”

“It’s so new we haven’t even had a meeting. I’m still trying to arouse interest. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lady Chase.”

Diana looked at her with deepened curiosity. The marriage of the Marquis of Chase to a widowed tradeswoman had been much discussed last season. Diana now recalled that there had been something to do with a murder and a collection of books. Being wholly unacquainted with Chase, a famously disreputable peer, she hadn’t paid much attention.

“How do you do, Lady Chase. I am Lady Fanshawe and this is my sister, Miss Montrose.” After the three of them had exchanged the ordinary information about themselves, Minerva declared herself bored and asked Mr. Sancho if he had any good books written by politicians. He took her off to hunt down a translation of Machiavelli’s
The Prince.
Deciding to worry later about the effect of that classic on Minerva’s forceful personality, Diana settled in for a chat with her new acquaintance.

“Tell me about your society.”

“A group of men started a society of collectors called the Burgundy Club. Iverley refused to let me, or any other woman, belong so I decided to start my own.”

“It’s a lovely idea but a terrible name. The Society of London’s Lady Bibliophiles sounds dreadfully dull. The men’s name is much better. I suppose burgundy is what they drink at their meetings.”

“Actually the club was named for a manuscript.” Lady Chase sounded amused.

“But for the wine too. Because you can be sure they drink plenty of it, and I’d also wager they talk about more than just books. I think you’d attract more members if you expanded the scope. Something like the Society of Books, Bonnets, Manuscripts, and Millinery. Women all love talking about hats.”

“But we want to be serious.”

“Just because we love to discuss fashion, it doesn’t mean we cannot be serious about books too. Think of men and their wine.”

“You make an excellent argument. I could learn something useful too. I know a great deal about books and almost nothing of fashion.”

Diana surveyed her critically. It was true that the marchioness, though extremely pretty, was a little unkempt. Her dress, at least two seasons old, didn’t fit well and her hair was falling down, no easy feat when one is wearing a bonnet. She returned Diana’s examination and concluded her appraisal of Diana’s silk twill street dress topped by a midnight blue velvet spencer with mink trim.

“How,” she asked with a little sigh, “do you manage to look so … sleek? It’s the only word I can think of. Everything about you—shoes, dress, gloves, hair, hat—everything is perfect. I always look as though I just got out of bed.”

“Your husband must enjoy that.”

Lady Chase grinned wickedly. “He does. But speaking for myself, I’d just as soon present myself to the world as a person who deserves to be seen outside the bedchamber. You must tell me your secret.”

“It’s simple. I used to look quite ordinary, you know. The key is, in a single word, Chantal. My maid.”

“She must be French.”

“French, weighs about six stone, dresses entirely in black and is more terrifying than anyone you’ll ever meet. She’s also a genius and I pay her enough to maintain the army of a small country.”

“How does one find such a gem?”

“As soon as Bonaparte fell, my late husband ordered his French business correspondent to find the best dresser in Paris. She’s been with me for five years and I’ve fought off numerous efforts to lure her away. Two duchesses only last week.”

“Yet she remains loyal?”

“She’d love to dress a duchess.” Diana looked down modestly. “I’m doing what I can to help her achieve her ambition.”

“Really? You are being courted by a duke? What’s he like?”

“A duke’s heir, the Marquis of Blakeney. Iverley’s cousin.”

“Already I don’t like him, if he’s related to that man.”

“Iverley doesn’t like him, either.” Diana couldn’t suppress a gasp of laughter at her new friend’s single-minded scorn for Sebastian.

Lady Chase smiled. “In that case I have no doubt he’s a splendid gentleman. Is he handsome?”

“Divinely so. And such address.”

“Nothing like his cousin then. Does he collect books?”

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.”

Lady Chase shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect. And that can change. Cain, my husband, only bought books to read before he met me.”

“I used to think books were meant to be read, too, until Mr. Iverley told me all about his collection of book bindings.”

“I will allow Iverley to be a discriminating bookman. But otherwise there’s nothing to be said for him at all. You’d do much better to stick with your duke.”

D
iana’s willingness to follow Lady Chase’s advice and stick with Blakeney was thwarted by the abundance—or perhaps elusiveness—of Leicestershire’s foxes. But while the marquis was absent from London’s drawing rooms, the new Lord Iverley became something of a fixture.

The second time Diana saw him enter a room—at Lady Storrington’s musical recital—she was prepared to forgive his previous discourtesy. Towering over the other new arrivals, he surveyed the guests as though searching for someone. He saw her and unmistakably he paused for a fraction of a second, unnoticeable had she not been looking. Then his gaze moved on until he spotted his quarry.

Lady Georgina Harville.

Diana was so distracted she allowed Mr. Chandler, a handsome fortune hunter she despised, to find her a seat and join her for the soprano’s performance of which she heard not one single note.

Later, trying to shed him, she joined a group in which, it turned out, Iverley and Lady Gee were the center of attention.

“I do believe peacock feathers are becoming more popular than ostrich,” he drawled.

Unbelievable! Iverley talking about millinery. And in such an affected voice.

“My friend Compton assures me that peacock will be all the rage next season,” he continued.

The surrounding ladies clucked avidly at a prognostication Diana didn’t believe for a moment. Tarquin Compton’s taste was impeccable and peacock feathers, in her opinion, were dreadfully vulgar.

“What do you think, Lady Gee?” he asked with a smile that Diana could only categorize as roguish. “Your headgear is always most striking.”