Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 (10 page)

Harry would have to depend on Virginie. Whatever she wanted, that he would do. But if she returned to Lyndhurst in this situation, with an innocent woman depending on him, then he would have to cut the connection. However much that would hurt him.

He got to his feet, using his cane as lightly as he could. Generally he preferred not to depend on his sticks and canes. He didn’t want his leg to get any worse, but recently he realised it probably would not. His leg was part of what he was. It wouldn’t get better, neither would it get worse. The canes helped him to keep his balance. The pain remained at the same level, but he was accustomed to it by now. At least he could thank his mother for that, to accept his pain stoically and not to inflict it on others. Weaknesses were to be despised.

“Thank you. I believe you should wish me happy in a day or two. I will make the arrangements and send you word. We’ve agreed on a small ceremony.”

One thing was for sure. He wouldn’t give her up without a fight.

Chapter Ten

“Madam, madam!”

Virginie woke from a restless sleep with her maid’s words ringing in her ears. Sitting up in bed, she shook her head and pushed her night-time plaits away from her face. The two braids fell heavily over her shoulder blades. “What on earth is so important, girl? I told you not to disturb me. What has happened that made you decide to disobey my orders?”

“It’s Miss Simpson, ma’am, the lady the Duke of Lyndhurst was about to marry.” Virginie’s maid appeared most unlike her normal, controlled self. Although dressed as neatly as always, strands of hair peeped out from under her linen cap, and she wore no ruffles. Fenton tended to remove her lace ruffles when she was using the iron, in case she spoiled it. Her flushed complexion inclined to confirm that theory, or maybe something else had caused that. She was wringing her hands together. Worry creased her forehead in deep furrows.

“Why should Miss Simpson concern me?” Virginie dragged back the covers and reached for her robe, shrugging into it without Fenton’s help. Usually the maid would have got hold of the robe before she did. “What time is it?”

Striding to the window, she hauled back the curtains. Outside sunlight bathed the garden with golden light, the water sprinkling from the small fountain glittering in the summer brightness. As if to answer her, the clock chimed. Ten, and then the three small chimes for the three-quarter. She’d slept longer than she’d thought.

She turned her back on the window and folded her arms. “Well? Out with it!”

And why had her maid not brought her tray? Not that Virginie couldn’t function without her tea and toast, but she had never known Fenton to enter her bedroom in the morning without it.

“She’s dead, your grace!”

“Goodness!” Virginie stared at her maid, noting the wide eyes, the shocked expression. “How did that happen? Illness, an accident?”

“Murder!”

A sense of unreality struck Virginie. How could that be when she’d seen the woman herself the night before last? Rhea Simpson’s appearance at the theatre had given Virginie tacit approval to go ahead with accepting Harry’s proposal. As far as she was concerned, the door had closed between her and Marcus.

To her deep shame, relief filled her, as if it came from an outside source. Marcus was free again. She could go back.

Instinct brought that thought, but her reason told her no. She disgusted herself. How could she think that?

Murder? Had Fenton really said that? “How?”

“A woman discovered her in her room this morning. Her body was cold and the blood was congealed on her clothes.”

Virginie repressed her shudder. If anything could take her mind off the predicament that had clogged her thoughts for the past several weeks, then the notion of a healthy young woman killed could accomplish the task. “Blood?”

“Someone had stabbed her, your grace!” Fenton was behaving far too dramatically. Her shudder spoke of the stage.

“Pull yourself together, woman, and tell me the whole. Then you may fetch my breakfast, for I’m not likely to get any more sleep today.”

She needed time to think.

Fenton bowed, and Virginie waited for her to compose herself. When her maid straightened, the smooth expression she usually wore was back in place. Her maid folded her hands before her and took a deep breath. “Although Miss Simpson was staying here at the club, she did not have a personal abigail. She cared for the babies herself.”

“Unusual.” Especially with twins.

“Indeed. She utilised one of the staff to care for the children when she left the house.” Fenton glanced at Virginie’s face. “Your lady mother customarily helped, but of course she has not been there recently. However, she found a maid, and when she returned from the theatre, where she met you and your mother, she went back to the club. That was the last time anyone saw her. Alerted by the babies making far too much noise, the factotum at the club, Lightfoot, ventured into the room this morning and found her dead. Stabbed through the heart.” Virginie allowed Fenton her dramatic shudder. “She was wearing the same gown that she wore to the theatre.”

Alarm shot through Virginie. “You mean that she wasn’t seen after her visit?”

“Exactly, ma’am. Would you like your breakfast now?”

“Yes, please.” She needed time to think.

Fenton left the room in a self-important swish of silk. Cursing under her breath, Virginie strode to the bed, then to the dressing table. She caught sight of her tousled figure in the mirror before she paced back again. Unable to keep still, she walked. She’d go to the park and get rid of some of this restless energy while she thought.

If Rhea was discovered in her clothes from the theatre, that meant she must have died that same night. Or did it? If she hadn’t been seen, why didn’t someone enquire before? D’Argento was a better host than that. And what did that mean for Marcus?

While she felt sorry for the poor woman, Virginie admitted, at least to herself, that she hadn’t known Rhea well enough to mourn her. At least, no more than anyone hearing of the sad death of a stranger would. She had built bridges for Marcus’s sake, and, she had to say, for her own. To help her re-entry into society. That was even more important now she had agreed to marry Harry.

No, it was no good. She had to go to the club. Thank heaven women could go there without a male escort.

When Virginie did go to the club an hour later, her mother accompanied her. Any hope she’d had that Deirdre would remain at the house were dashed when her mother met her in the hall and clearly stated her intentions of going. “Those poor babies! Motherless and fatherless!”

“They have a father,” Virginie reminded her.

“For all the good that will do them.” Deirdre huffed, folding her arms under her breasts. “The sad young woman was friendless.”

Virginie said nothing further until they had climbed into the carriage and obtained privacy. Despite the warmth of the day, she kept the windows closed, for fear the footman behind might get a hint of what she had to say.

“I can’t but feel for her. But I cannot see what that will mean to you. Aren’t you better leaving someone else to deal with this?” her mother said.

“Mother, you know what else that means,” she snapped. “You surely cannot ignore that.”

When they got to the club, her worst fears were confirmed. A small group of gapers had gathered around, so the news was abroad already.

With her nose in the air Virginie swept past and up the steps. She could not avoid hearing the murmurs of “Bitch” and “French whore” that followed her. They hurt, even though they were entirely incorrect. She was the villainess of the piece, then. She feared that. The gossips would find a way to bring her into the picture. She would cope with that when she had to. Her imminent departure to France loomed as a strong possibility once more.

Everything seemed to be going wrong since she arrived in this country she still thought of as home, despite having spent so long in France. Did a curse follow her here? She was beginning to think so.

The main hall initially appeared the same. Just a few more people, that was all. The graceful staircase swept up to the higher levels and the porter stood behind his desk. The footman was stationed in one corner, ready to attend to the needs of the visitors. To the left an open door indicated the part of the club available to all. Beyond stood a suite of spacious rooms, some of them for the exclusive use of woman.

Virginie turned right, the footman opening the door for her. It led to the staff quarters and the suite of rooms set aside for the use of the immortals to the club. Not that they were framed as such. Most people knew them as the rooms where a special test was conducted to decide membership. Although mortal, Mrs. Davenport could enter as Virginie’s guest.

Beyond, the apparent tranquillity of the club shattered into little pieces. Susanna, her erstwhile ward, nodded to her. Nobody else moved.

D’Argento, who was standing with his back to her, jerked around when she entered. He strode across the polished parquet floor to meet her, his face thunderous. “Why did you come here?”

“What else did you expect me to do?” she demanded furiously. “Wait patiently at home for the mob to come?”

“You’re connected too closely to this affair.” He shook his head. Although as immaculately attired as always, his movements were not as practised, and his expression was far from guarded. “You should go. Did anyone see you arrive?”

“Only the crowd outside. Amidei, I refuse to skulk in my house. I will not allow people to speculate and think the worst of me.”

He cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowing. “Marcus is here.”

“I presumed he would be.” She had to fight to keep her expression neutral. “Does he know any more than anyone else?” In other words, had he visited Rhea before she died?

Amidei shook his head. “She was wearing the same clothes she wore at the theatre.”

Virginie silently vowed never to visit the theatre again. “We left her here. Did nobody see her come in?”

“Nobody remembers seeing her, although we are continuing to ask, of course.”

Even here, with her own kind, people stared at her. Expecting attention, she’d taken care over her dress, demanding the new ivory silk embroidered with spring flowers. That gave her something to hide behind, something to bolster her confidence. She’d painted her face lightly and ensured her pearls were at their gleaming best. If people wanted to stare at her, then they’d remember her at her best, looking like this.

“Unfortunate,” she said. “We will find someone. I brought her here after our visit to the theatre, and went home myself.”

“You did not go anywhere else?” he said sharply.

“Unfortunately not. I was tired. My mother can vouch for me.”

Amidei frowned. “Of course she would. Many people saw you there, and your presence was even reported in the papers.”

She allowed herself a small nod. “It was indeed. Where is Marcus?”

“Here.” Despite her determination to cover herself with dignity, a thrill went through her at the sound of his voice, which came from behind her. He must have entered the room more quietly than usual. She swung around to confront him.

They stared at each other. The same flame of desperate desire flared in his eyes as she felt deep inside. It had the same effect. It tore her apart.

Just as quickly, the door opened again and Harry stood there. He walked into the room, the clunk of his cane against the floor the only sound in the hushed room. There must have been fifteen people in there, and nobody was talking. Not even the footman with a tray full of glasses moved.

Everybody waited to see what would happen next. The Earl of Ellesmere, Jupiter, sat with his wife, but he watched them sharply. As the king of the gods, he would step forward and take control, if necessary. Kentmere sat close by, his concerned features taking everything in. A lady sat with him; Portia, his wife.

Nobody knew what would come next, least of all Virginie.

“I didn’t do it,” Marcus said, addressing her directly. “I haven’t seen her since I asked her to marry me.”

“What will happen to the children?” d’Argento demanded before anyone else could speak.

Marcus’s attention jerked to Mercury. “I will take care of them, naturally.”

“Even though you claim they aren’t yours?”

Marcus nodded. “They are not of my get. I have thought on this, and I cannot think that they are mine.”

D’Argento regarded him with a straight stare that held more than observation. D’Argento was reading Marcus, though it was up to the god how far he let the messenger in. “You
believe
they are not yours. But the story of how you came to seduce Miss Simpson—you were drunk, were you not?”

“Even then. They are not mine, though I cannot prove it. However, the babies need a home and I am prepared to offer it.”

“Charitable of you.”

Marcus looked away, glanced at Virginie then back to d’Argento, as if drawn to him. “Not exactly. If I don’t, my name will be worse than mud. We are trying to revive our cause here, are we not? I have decided to do everything I can to restore my reputation. Being illegitimate, the children cannot threaten any child I do beget. I will never acknowledge them as my own. However, I will foster them and ensure they have what they need.”

He appeared completely expressionless, face hard as stone, but Virginie knew why. He dared not release his feelings.

D’Argento nodded. “A good cause. But what if another one of us takes them?”

“Then I’ll be accused of avoiding my responsibility,” Marcus said. “They need peace and quiet. I’ll take them into the country and stay there.”

D’Argento nodded. “It seems appropriate.”

Ellesmere spoke, his voice rumbling over the room, commanding and undeniable. “I have let you care for matters here, d’Argento, but I need to know everything. Eros cast a most unwise spell, did he not?”

“Unwise but necessary,” Eros, otherwise Edmund, Duke of Kentmere, answered. He seemed at ease, sitting back with his legs crossed, his hand over his wife’s as if the physical contact was essential to him. “If I had not taken action, the duchesse would have enforced my marriage to Susanna, her ward. I had no way of knowing my arrows would let something else in.”

Virginie met his steady gaze. “You had signed an agreement to that effect.”

“But not a marriage contract. Who can legislate for the heart?”

She let her mouth turn up in a smile. “I can.” She met Kentmere’s gaze coolly. “I could have enchanted you, but I chose not to. Why didn’t you do the same to me?”

He gave a disarming smile, but she didn’t let it sway her. “Anger,” he confessed. “You wanted to take me away from the woman I love.”

“And fear,” she added. That must have added a touch to his impulsive decision.

“Once I had done it, I could not undo it. But I tempered the arrow, as I did with the one I sent to Lyndhurst. It was infatuation. It should have worn out after a month.”

“Why didn’t you remove it?”

“I saw no need.”

Then he’d left London, to take his bride to his new home, and Virginie and Marcus had made their own futures. Or seemed to. Virginie missed him, yearning to go to him even now. Knowing she could not, or she would perpetuate what went on between them. She would never claim her own soul back, and she’d never know if she truly loved him or if this was more akin to something else. An addiction didn’t reflect the real person, only the slave the compulsion made of them.