A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) (10 page)

Chapter 18

When Lord Durham’s dark eyes found the person Mr. Whitmore described as Mrs. Mannering in the opera box, his black eyebrows shot up with shock. Lady Delia had stood to greet Mr. Whitmore’s guest, but at the sight of the Marquess, she stumbled backward and her arm struck the side of the box, hard. Tears of pain formed in her eyes as her heart jumped to her throat and she grasped her elbow in pain.

She had no time to answer before another beautiful man came into the box, towing a lady in deep green whose markedly lovely face was enhanced by a bit of powder and rouge and Lady Delia trembled with alarm. The Marquess immediately to
ok two steps forward and steadied her.

“Blackwell!
Lovely to see you, of course. This is Mrs. Mannering but as you can see, she is quite overcome by the heat. It is quite dreadfully hot in here. Please tell Mr. Whitmore never to worry, but that I took her out to the gardens for some air. I am sure we will return shortly.” When Durham touched her arm, she could not help but stiffen in terror but she permitted herself to be steered out of the box and then down a short staircase that appeared to be used only by the staff and out a back door into the moonlight. Her mortification and fear at her discovery was utterly overwhelming and she was unable to prevent the short journey to the privacy of the back garden.

Once they were outside, Mason let go of her arm and she dashed to a where a bench stood, shaded by trees heavy with leaves. She stood behind the bench, placing it between herself and the Marquess for protection.

“D.E. Mannering, I presume,” he said, his voice low. She shivered and a tear escaped from her eyes but she dashed it away. “Delia. Ellsworth?” She took a deep breath and looked straight at him as he read the card she had given on the previous afternoon to Mr. Whitmore. He was still so beautiful she hated herself for drinking it in. She took a deep breath.

“Yes.”

“The authoress?”

She did not lower her eyes. “Yes.”

“What the devil are you doing at Covent Garden with Freddy Whitmore?” his voice was filled with utter disbelief.

“I am sure I fail to see how that is any of your concern, my lord!” she replied, “Whatever are
you
doing here?”

“I need hardly explain how or why
I
attend an opera under my own name! But I fail to understand why Lady Delia Ellsworth is attending an opera ball with my friend’s cousin under a false name. And a name which, if I am not mistaken, belongs to the author of a shocking and lurid romantic novel currently circulating in the
ton
. But, by Jove, please do inquire as to the oddness of
my
appearing here in front of you.”

“First of all,” retorted Lady Delia with high color, “I met Mr. Whitmore, with whom I assume you are acquainted based on that most recent speech, in my street as he was looking for the home of his aunt, whose address he had forgotten. I volunteered to ask one of my staff of her direction.” He snorted and interrupted.

“Well that’s a ridiculous enough story but what I want to know is why the notorious
Lady Delia Ellsworth
is in London in the first place, let alone attending the opera with an impressionable young man,” he finished with a vehemence that surprised her.

Her delicately arched eyebrows drew together and she fought to keep her voice down.

“I am
not
notorious! You are the only dreadful person who has ever accused me of being so! After I fled Washburn Court from my horrible, scheming guardian I had to think of way to support myself in town and I would thank you not to ruin my only chance of making a living with your vicious and sinister tales!”

Seeing that
he was struck dumb, she came out from behind the bench. “Now my lord, I shall go back inside and fetch Freddy, telling him I have the headache and beg to be returned home. I’m afraid I cannot enjoy this entertainment with your scowling, accusing presence looming over all and sundry. I only ask that you do not reveal my identity and that you do not let it be known that D.E. Mannering is a woman living in London, though I entertain little hope you should be so agreeable. I will bid you good night.”

Lady Delia swept past him as he stared at her, shocked. She thought with grim pleasure that at least this time, she had been able to respond and he had not been able to take advantage of his effect on her body. She quickly mounted the steps and found a relieved Mr. Whitmore, upset at having left her in such a delicate state.

“Good evening, Mr. Whitmore” she said to him, “I am most dreadfully sorry, but I was overcome by the crowd and cannot seem to overcome this headache, as kind as the Marquess was to take me outside to get some air. He is, I am sure, directly behind me. He saw another acquaintance as we returned. Would you ever forgive me if I begged to be returned home?”

Mr. Whitmore nearly fell upon her with relief but the disappointment in his face was clear. Lady Delia turned to the two other guests in the box and Freddy recovered to make introductions to the Earl of Blackwell and his friend, Lady Wilmot. She smiled politely as they shook hands and left, apologizing all the while.

The carriage ride home was excruciating, but she closed her eyes as if in pain and she permitted Mr. Whitmore to hold her hand, thus reducing the need for conversation. On her doorstep, he insisted he would call on her the very next day and she scarcely knew what she said to him before she was upstairs in her bed, shaking with tears and wondering how she would explain it all to Amelia, who she had sent to bed when she left at ten.

Chapter 19

When Mason had stepped into the box at Covent Garden, his first vision had been of a lovely silhouette. But then the shape of the face, no longer in silhouette, had struck him immediately. He had not seen the face in nearly three months, but it was burned into his memory and his shock had momentarily frozen him, until she had reacted and stumbled, painfully. He could not think why Lady Delia was in front of him, why she was calling herself Mrs. Mannering, or how she could possibly be the D.E. Mannering his sister Harriet so desperately sought. His first thought had been that Freddy had taken her as his mistress. He had proceeded to see red, but shortly his memories of Freddy’s innocent description of her and her tirade in the garden had made him doubt that particular explanation.  

He saw her violet eyes filled with tears and her beautiful face furious with rage as her slender neck turned pink while she chastised him. The soft skin of her arm as he had led her outside seemed softer now and itched to touch it in spite of
himself. After excusing himself to Blackwell, who appeared not at all disappointed to see him go, giving he and Lady Wilmot the box to themselves, he had arrived home utterly confused. Was she or wasn’t she a shockingly forward young lady with loose morals?
After I fled Washburn Court from my horrible scheming guardian, I had to think of way to support myself
she had hissed at him.

He saw the copy of
Annabelle’s Adventures
on the table where he had left it. So, Lady Delia
had
written something of their encounter in the book. What else was there? He opened to Chapter Two, where the heroine appeared to be hiding in a garden from her guardian, who sought to gain her inheritance by forcing her to marry him. He remembered the scene he had witnessed on the drive to Washburn Court, the two figures in the garden with one holding the other one back. In the book, Annabelle’s guardian had twisted his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back and threatened to force her to marry him. 

As he continued to read, now turning the pages faster and faster, his shock and displeasure increased. In the third chapter, the wicked guardian attempted to creep into the
heroine’s bedchamber and she had been forced to escape into the bedroom of…the hero. The Marquess stared. Was that what Lady Delia had been doing? Fleeing her guardian, not seeking a lover? Shocked, Durham dropped the book to the floor, exceedingly put out at his own stupidity and his complicity in Lady Delia’s unhappiness.

Then he thought of what he had done to her in that bed at Washburn Court. It was beyond inexcusable. The girl was doubtless completely terrified. But then he remembered how her body had risen to meet his and how her gorgeous eyes had darkened at his kisses. He recalled how her breasts had tasted when he took just one rosy nipple into his mouth. These thoughts, he instructed himself, aided no one. Meanwhile, while he was busy salivating at the lovely flesh of a young woman, that young woman had fled her home and been ruined in the eyes of the
ton
, thanks to his ineptitude. It was not an agreeable speculation. 

Contrasting with his guilty conscience, the Marquess’ body was on fire at the memory and, needing distraction from his raging lust, he left the house in a fury and walked. He found himself at Gigi’s small house not an hour later, not out of any desire to see his mistress, he discovered, but because he could not think of another plac
e that was as far away as where he had set her up, in Sparrow Street. As he patted at his pocket to see if he had his key, he wondered if he even wanted to be there. He had presently no interest in Gigi, but he did need distraction from Lady Delia. After finding the key and turning it in the lock, he noticed a small boy crouching near the house. 

“You there, my boy,” the Marquess called to him, “Do you need something? What are you doing down there?” 

“
Je ne parle pas l’anglais,”
the boy answered in French. The Marquess was about to reply in kind when Gigi herself, clad only in a distracting ensemble of peach silk, opened the door.

“Do come in, my lord,” she said through lowered lashes. “I was so hoping you would come today but I was afraid I had missed you!” She made a little moue with her mouth and beckoned him in. “I have a surprise for you.” She floated through the house to her bedroom, hips swaying with calculated seduction ever
y step of the way.

“Is that so?” he asked absently as Gigi led him to her bedroom, noticing that he no longer seemed taken in by her
transparent attempts to make him desire her. Had he really been that easily led before? Every tiny movement of her body was carefully planned to be as seductive as possible. He wondered at the slight annoyance he felt at her act, given it was entirely performed for his own benefit. 

“I have kept this for a special occasion,” Gigi said as she reached to the top shelf in an armoire in her bedchamber. “I know how you do appreciate fine brandy, and this is the finest my country has to offer.” Her eyes fixed on his face as she poured and Durham wondered for what purpose she was so obviously scrutinizing him. Then he noticed the label on the bottle.
He himself had smuggled the brand from France. The finest France had to offer was certainly a correct assessment, but he wondered how she had acquired it. 

“This is quite superb, Gigi,” he said as he sipped, “I only wonder how you came to be in possession of such a bottle?” 

Gigi’s dark eyes fixed on the snifter now in his hand. “Certainly you don’t doubt the ability of a Frenchwoman to use her wiles to get a bit of what is forbidden?” Her innuendo was not lost on Durham but he hid his frown. “Have you ever tasted this kind before?” she asked, her eyes wide with innocent inquiry.

The Marquess sensed that she already knew the answer and began to wonder how much information he could get out of her before she realized that he was not fooled. “What a silly question, Gigi. How could I have avoided the finest bottle when I claim to be a connoisseur? Now come here and cease this talk of alcohol.” She obeyed his directive to come closer and as she did so, slipped off her peignoir to reveal a tiny and highly transparent matching negligee. He
barely noticed. He didn’t usually tire of mistresses this quickly.

“But don’t you ever wonder, my lord,” Gigi asked as she trailed kisses over his chest as she began to undress him, “how it gets here? It’s so hard to smuggle but the duties on French brandy are so high that no one buys it legally.” She continued to kiss as she tried to get him to talk.

“What concern would that be of mine?” Durham said as he watched her white fingers begin to unfasten his breeches. Her breasts were on full display in the negligee, white and round and so soft but he felt only the dimmest urge to touch them. Gigi, he decided, was definitely not pleasing him. Not only was she unsuccessful at distracting him from Lady Delia, but she clearly was up to something and that meant he could not continue to keep her. 

Maybe she had a supplier back at home of the brandy and was looking for a way to get into England and make the money that went with it. He decided he would leave.

“Gigi, darling, I’m afraid I should not have come over tonight. I am quite too exhausted to live up to your appetites,” he said, hoping that his tone betrayed none of his suspicion. But he had no interest in making love to her tonight or any night, ever again. “Please forgive my hideous rudeness.” He stood and Gigi’s shock was obvious on her face. He tried to ease it, lest she grow suspicious. “I drank far too much of your countrymen’s delightful brandy and I’m afraid I am in no condition to spend the night.”

Gigi looked terribly disappointed but arranged her features into a seductive pout. “I have never noticed this problem with you before, my lord,” she purred, rising to her knees. “But if you say so, I must obey. I will wait for you tomorrow.”

Durham left as she was drawing off her chemise to leave him with a glimpse of her kneeling, naked body and waving the silk at him as he went. He would not return to her house, he thought, ever again.

When he arrived back at Durham House, it was after two-o’clock in the morning and he collapsed into bed until waking at nine. Once awake, he wrote out a message to be sent to the Earl of Blackwell
and rang for Melville.

“Melville, I have an errand for you to run,” Mason said as his valet arrived.

“My lord?”

“I wish you to go to Gigi’s house and procure any written correspondence to her from her writing desk that appears to be anything but a bill and bring it to me immediately.” 

Melville, instead of demanding to know why his lordship wished him to rob his mistress, pulled a packet of papers from his pocket.

“I have already done so, my lord.”

The Marquess started. “What!”

“I noticed that whenever you returned home from Madame’s apartments, you smelled of brandy. Since it is unusual for you to overindulge, it occurred to me to wonder why Madame should be always inducing you to drink. I visited her apartments several times at arbitrary hours and noticed that a good many disreputable looking male children came and went from her house with alarming regularity. On one occasion, I began to speak to one of the children but he regarded me in confusion. It appeared upon further inspection that the child spoke only French, my lord.”

“Is that so?” Durham recalled his own encounter with a French-speaking child that very evening.

“Indeed, sir. At this point, I became suspicious of the child, as he had been there the day before. On the next day, when a different boy arrived, I spoke to him as well. I asked the child, in French, if he would like a piece of candy. Being a young child, he of course asserted he would very much like a piece of candy. I asked him if I could see the letter he was carrying. The child then appeared alarmed and indicated that he was not to give the letter to anyone but to leave it to
be collected at a later time. I told the child that it seemed like a very good idea to simply deposit the letter and run along home and I would provide another piece of candy. After a small moment of consideration, the child agreed. I obtained the letter from the child and, when he had departed, opened and read it.”

The Marquess sat in silence, shocked at how blind he had been to Gigi’s machinations. She
had
been constantly pushing brandy on him. He motioned for Melville to continue.

“The letter was from a man, unsigned, directing Madame to push your lordship for information, but to be discreet. About what, I could not determine from that letter. I returned to Madame’s apartments after I knew you had visited her and took with me a glove of your
lordship’s. Upon observing Madame had gone out shopping for the day, I informed her maid that I wished to collect a glove that your lordship had previously left behind.  She let me in and once she had shown me Madame’s boudoir, disappeared upstairs. I collected all apparently relevant correspondence from Madame’s desk and left with the glove I had tucked in my pocket obviously displayed in my hand as I thanked the maid and departed.  He are the letters I collected, my lord.”

“Melville, I am speechless. As usual, your work is unparalleled. However, I must ask why you did not seek to inform me earlier of your actions? Unless you enjoy seeing me being made the dupe of a French whore?” 

“My lord, do not degrade yourself so. It was essential for your relationship with Madame to remain unchanged as I investigated her activities. As long as she suspected nothing, she would continue to be careless and fail to hide any damaging correspondence, such as that which I have procured for you.” 

Durham sat in his chair and thanked Melville again. “Lord Blackwell should be informed and will wish to discuss these letters with him as soon as might be arranged. Would you send a note to that effect? I will need to apprise him of Gigi’s status as my
former
mistress but of course her role in this situation cannot be concealed. I cannot help but feel a bit of the fool. I only hope Simon does not judge me too harshly.”

“I am sure that the Earl will be very understanding, my lord. He is, after all, a man who enjoys brandy as much as the next,” responded Melville generously. At that moment, Weebold appeared to collect Durham’s letter for Blackwell and the Marquess contemplated his options for the day.

To be sure, he must first see Lady Delia. It was without question that he apologize for his mortifying behavior. The thought of that monstrous Rosewood hurting her in any way made his blood boil; how had he not seen the signs while he was at Washburn Court? He did notice that there was some sort of disagreement between the two but he chalked it up to their relative closeness in age and Lady Delia’s grief. Rosewood had certainly been an ass and an oily pretension that he disliked but to Durham’s disappointment, he could recall no hint of the truly criminal in him. Nothing that would have suggested he would assault his ward or attempt to force her to marry him.

With Melville’s help, Durham dressed with care and brushed his hair into its usual waves. His coat was a deep forest green and he had a waistcoat of the same shade with breeches the color of pale straw. His cravat was immaculately white and tied with the precision only Melville could manage. He condescended to accept an emerald
stick-pin in one of the folds, much to his valet’s pleasure.

“If you will permit me to compliment my own work, your lordship i
s in excellent looks today. You resemble nothing so much as a frothing waterfall, into which a splash of a diamond—“