The Importance of Being Wicked (4 page)

Miss Brotherton looked at her cousin, who nodded. “Nine o'clock Wednesday,” he repeated before taking most punctilious leave of all, whether they deserved it or not. He, at least, knew how to behave.

Chapter 3

A
couple of hours later, four painters were enjoying the rapidly dwindling contents of Robert's wine cellar and arguing about art and the common man, one of their favorite subjects. Since Caro's round dining table had been chosen to encourage group conversation, Cynthia and Anne were able to follow the debate, to the pleasure of the artists, who always enjoyed an audience.

Caro turned to the Duke of Denford. She was a little concerned about his attentions to the countess. Not that she wasn't fond of the duke, who had been until very recently Julian Fortescue, one of Robert Townsend's oldest friends. Caro had nothing against Cynthia's having a little flirtation, since her husband was abroad on an extended diplomatic mission. Windermere had behaved badly, very badly. In Caro's estimation, he deserved little consideration. But Julian was a strong draft for a young lady who had, until lately, lived all her life in the country. Caro didn't trust him one inch.

It was a shame Oliver had recovered from his passion for Cynthia so quickly. He was a gentle soul and would never place her in a situation she was too unworldly to manage. He was, in fact, the perfect candidate for a fledgling career as a flirt. Caro intended that Windermere, when he returned, would find a very different wife from the naïve girl he'd callously wed and abandoned.

“Did you come here today to see Cynthia?” she asked.

Denford knew just what she was up to. “Playing the mother hen, Caro?” he asked.

“Cynthia's naught but a chick, and you are a big bad fox.”

He leaned in, his mouth inches from her ear. “I could be persuaded to turn my wicked attentions elsewhere. Remind me again why I've never seduced you.”

A great many women found Julian irresistible, but she'd never been one of them. “Perhaps because neither of us was interested.”

“I don't think that can be the reason. I'm always interested.”

“Until a year ago, I was married to your close friend.”

“No, I don't think that's it.”

Caro rolled her eyes.

“You deserved better than you had from Robert,” he said, no longer teasing.

“I won't hear a word against him,” she protested.

“You never will,” he replied.

“I was happy with him. I loved him.” Doubtless Julian, who regarded her with the keen observation he accorded everything, especially a picture he wanted to buy, had noticed that she didn't say Robert loved her. It wouldn't have been a lie. Robert had loved her, almost until the end. By the end, he'd loved nothing except the shake of the dice, the turn of the next card.

“Time to move on,” Julian said. “You should look for another husband, or at least a lover.”

He was right. If nothing else, a husband might save her from financial straits.

Or get her into a worse mess. At least, in her mutton-fisted way, she now had control over her income. She used to dread Robert's coming home to announce he'd ordered a dozen cases of claret, or bought a masterpiece from an unknown artist. The walls of her drawing room were jammed with such
oeuvres,
though better them than the huge sums tossed away at the tables. She could have tried to stop him, but she never did, any more than he attempted to manage her. That was their pact when they went their merry way to Gretna Green, a pair of children tossing away the shackles of convention. No more guardian, no more mother. They would always do exactly what they wished.

“I wouldn't blame you for not wanting to be wed again,” Julian said, “but a little amour would set you up. I am offering my services.”

“How flattering. I've always wanted to be the recipient of charity.” There was no desire in his blue eyes. “If I accept your offer, will you leave Cynthia alone?”

He flashed his rare genuine smile, an unguarded one that revealed the generous man Caro knew lay buried beneath the ruthless cynic. Deeply buried. Sometimes it was hard to remember he existed. “Don't bluff a bluffer, Caro. I might just take you up on your offer. Then where would you be?”

“I won't be your lover—not that you wish it—and I won't let you hurt Cynthia. I'm warning you.”

Julian raised his hands in mock surrender. “You're a frightening woman, Mother Caro. There's nothing wrong with offering occasional respectable escort to the wife of one of my oldest friends when he is unable to do so.”

“The friend you haven't spoken to civilly in at least five years. Leave Cynthia alone.”

“I hear and obey.”

He would, of course, do just what he wanted. But not before Caro had a chance to warn her inexperienced friend and give her some much-needed advice about dealing with attractive rakes.

“Why are you here, then? Not to dine with a group of young artists whose work you despise.”

“I called because I heard an interesting rumor about the
Farnese Venus.
”

“I heard that rumor too. It's nonsense of course.”

“If you still have it, I'll buy it from you.”

“I thought you didn't have any money.”

“I can always find money to buy a really great picture, and the Venus is one of the best small Italian masters I've ever seen.”

Caro shrugged. “I don't have it. I believe Robert sold it to Marcus.”

“Now that's something I haven't heard before. I must see if I can locate our old comrade Lithgow. Last I heard, he was in Naples.”

Excellent. That should fob Julian off for a few weeks. Before his unexpected inheritance, he'd been an art dealer with a well-deserved reputation for terrier-like tenacity in pursuit of an Old Master. If he really believed she still had the Titian, she wouldn't put it past him to tear her house apart. She didn't think he knew about the closet. Robert had always clung to the secret of its existence, and she'd never told a soul. Not even Oliver, thank God.

M
iss Anne Brotherton was perfectly happy. She could scarcely believe she'd managed to get away from Miss Agatha Smart, her pious companion, and Lord Morrissey, her equally officious guardian. Only the unlikely coincidence of Miss Smart's sister's last illness coming just as Morrissey was appointed to the viceroyalty of Ireland had enabled Anne to escape the echoing halls of Camber. Morrissey would never have let her visit Caro and the cozy house in Conduit Street. Anne hated to think what he'd do when informed of her present whereabouts by Mr. Thompson, his fellow trustee of the Brotherton fortune.

She'd cross that bridge when Morrissey crossed the Irish Sea. Meanwhile, she had a large purring feline on her lap and the company of her favorite person in all the world.

“Why did you name him Tish?” she asked.

“Well,” Caro said, with the special look that presaged a story, often a tall one. “He appeared at the back door one day, just a tiny kitten. So hungry and piteous, though you wouldn't think it to look at him now, the spoiled, lazy beast. I named her Letitia.”

“Her?”

“The name turned out to be a mistake so
he
became Tish.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I'm wounded.”

“Admit you invented the whole thing.” Anne reached over and tugged playfully at Caro's curls, which she found fascinating, never having seen such a style in the depths of the country. “Admit you made it up!” The subject of the argument growled ominously.

“Never!” Caro said. “Not even under the direst torture.”

Anne could only laugh. Ever since she was a small child, Caro had been the source of fun and giggles, the likes of which she seldom encountered in the household of her loving but elderly grandfather. On her only-too-rare visits, Caro would tear into the grand mansion, running and laughing in the passages, teasing her uncle, Anne's grandfather, who couldn't resist her any more than Anne could. Not Anne, Annabella. Caro had pronounced Anne too dull a name for her darling cousin. When she was with Caro, she felt like Annabella, a beautiful, exotic creature instead of the plain, quiet, well-behaved heiress known as Anne Brotherton.

Their guests had gone, though most would have stayed all night given the slightest encouragement. Except Castleton, who hadn't even prolonged his call sufficiently to elicit an invitation to dine. The duke seemed very proper, exactly the kind of man she was used to.

Caro edged along the sofa and took Anne's hand, prompting the cat to stretch his claws into the delicate stuff of his mistress's gown. “Stop it, Tish! He's such a naughty boy,” she said. “What do you think of him?”

Anne deduced that the question was addressed to her and “he” was not the cat. “I hardly know. We'd scarcely spoken before Denford and Oliver started baiting him. I suppose you put them up to it.”

“There was no need. Denford is naturally contrary, and Oliver is suffering agonies of passionate jealousy.”

Anne began to giggle. No one, including her late fiancé, had ever subjected her to such overt and overblown worship. “I like Oliver. He's sweet.”

“Which is precisely why he's always in the throes of unrequited love. Poor dear! A gentle character combined with a complete lack of the means of support make him entirely resistible to women.”

“Did he ever fall in love with you?”

“For about a week, after Robert discovered him and invited him to the house. He recovered quickly. He always does. Until two days ago, he was in love with Lady Windermere and then,
voilà,
you appeared, and poor Cynthia was forgotten.”

“Lady Windermere doesn't seem upset.”

Caro stopped laughing. “No, and I'm worried. Oliver was a nice safe flirt for her. Perfect for a lady not used to London wickedness. But Julian . . .”

Neither was Anne used to London wickedness. She was a little shocked by this easy attitude to dalliance. “But she's married. Surely her husband is alive.”

“Windermere is very much alive, not that he's had the decency to keep his wife informed. He has neglected her horribly, and it would serve him right if she gave him a pair of horns.” Caro stood up and strode around the room. Anne, who had never heard her sound so wrathful, knew what she meant by horns and couldn't contain a little shocked gasp.

“You are such a country mouse, love,” Caro said. “You don't know the depraved ways of town. Not that I encourage infidelity, unless a man deserves it. He left her alone and pregnant, and she lost the child.”

Caro, too, had given birth to a stillborn child. Anne knew little of such matters herself but supposed it must be painful. But Caro never mentioned it; nor did she give the impression of being greatly affected.

“To think he used to be a friend!” Caro continued. “It goes to show how much a man can change. I don't give a fig for Windermere, but I fear Julian will break her heart. He's a very bad man. And before you raise your brows at me and ask why I let him in the house, let me remind you that I like bad men.”

Anne tried to disentangle this ill-tempered speech, detecting some deeper emotion. Yet it was so unlike Caro not to say exactly what she thought. It had something to do with Robert Townsend and his friends, who had turned all London on its ears as wild youths. In addition to Denford and Windermere, there had been a fourth member of the set, Marcus, who lived abroad. She remembered Caro's breathless letters about the quartet. And about the wonders of Robert. Anne hadn't known Robert well. Her grandfather hadn't liked him, said he was a scoundrel, albeit a charming and gifted one. After the marriage, Caro didn't visit Camber often, and usually she came alone. Fond as he was of his brother's only child, Anne thought her stiff-necked grandfather might have turned his back on her if it hadn't been for his delight in vexing his sister-in-law, Caro's mother, who then and still refused to speak to her daughter.

“Was Robert bad?” Only to Caro would she dream of posing such a daring question.

“My darling Annabella,” Caro replied lightly, “only a
very
bad man would elope with a seventeen-year-old. But we were madly in love. I never regretted it until the day he died. I only wish you may find a husband who makes you as happy.”

“I suppose I'd better find myself a ‘bad man' then.” Anne gave a spurt of laughter at the probable reaction of her guardian, a man who made her grandfather look like a freethinker. “I doubt Lord Morrissey would permit it.”

Caro waved her hand dismissively. “If necessary, we'll get around him. Didn't we manage to bring you here despite his disapproval of everything about me?”

“Perhaps I should set my cap at Denford and save Lady Windermere from sin.”

“No, love. It's different for you. You're an heiress and have responsibilities. No rogues for you. I'm afraid you'll have to settle for a man of solid worth. I don't see why you shouldn't fall in love with one, with just a little effort. Do you think Castleton handsome?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you sure? His appearance isn't striking, like Robert's, or Julian's for that matter, but I would call him good-looking. And he's very large. I think that's comforting in a man.”

Anne looked at Caro in astonishment. Her cousin seemed to be quite serious. She herself hadn't noticed anything out of the way about her noble suitor
except
for his size.

“Well?”

“He has broad shoulders that look like they could bear a lot of weight. Or dig a hole,” she said hopefully.

Caro regarded her fondly. “We must hope that Castleton, or some other man, will share your passion for excavating the crumbled ruins of the past. At the very least, I want you to marry someone you won't end up disliking. Think of being tied for life to someone you loathed, as poor Cynthia is.”

“I don't think I'll be hard to please.” She'd never regarded marriage as anything but a duty she owed her position in life. Something she needed to do and hoped wouldn't interfere with the pursuit of her real interests. “I liked Felix Brotherton even though we were really more like brother and sister. I'm very sorry he died, and now I have to go to all the trouble of finding a different husband to look after the Brotherton estates. I hoped Castleton would suit.”