Lady in Blue (2 page)

London, 1819

A devilish nuisance,
this business of hiring a mistress.

The Earl of Caradoc had put it off for several weeks, dreading the awkwardness of the first meeting and, worse, the first night. But when he snarled at his valet for no reason and spent too many late hours at the gaming tables, it became clear that he could wait no longer.

By now Florette knew he was on the prowl again. She had an uncanny way of knowing everything. Doubtless she’d already procured a replacement for the fiery Marita Sanchez, whose departure had been as explosive as it was unexpected. Until then, no woman had ever walked out on him, and he didn’t like the experience one bit.

As his fingers tightened on the reins, the grays broke stride and the curricle lurched. “Sorry,” he said over his shoulder to the tiger, who grinned cheekily at him. All his staff, including this groom, knew he was out of temper. They endured his frequent bad moods because he paid them well. Money, he had learned, could buy almost anything, even loyalty. And in the next hour it would purchase another woman for his bed.

He found the thought eerily discordant. By now he should be married, with children in the nursery and some purpose to his life. Already he had outlived his father by seven weeks. When had he lost sight of the goal?

Owen Talgarth’s son, he reflected dourly—addicted to pleasure and his own whims. One of these days he’d pull himself together, keep the last of his promises, and close the account. He’d marry, sire an heir, and restore the castle at River’s End. By now it must be a pile of rubble. He’d not been there since the day he buried his father, twenty years ago.

As Bryn pulled up in front of Florette’s Hothouse, the door opened and a woman stepped out. She paused at the top of the wide marble stairs. Aloof and somber, she seemed to be staring at him, although he could not see her eyes.

Not an inch of flesh was visible. Swathed in blue, from the veiled hat obscuring her face and hair to her dark half boots and gloves, she put him in mind of the Sibyl. The prophetess. The seer of all things yet to come. Only her veil moved, fluttering in the early spring breeze. Her stillness unnerved him.

Lord, everything spooked him these days, even a whore on her way to the shops. What else could she be, emerging midday from London’s most fashionable brothel? Probably she was assessing the quality of his clothes and horses, weighing the advantage of doing a little business before going out.

The acute discomfort of being appraised by invisible eyes raked the ashes of his foul mood. He tossed the reins to his tiger, swung from the curricle and advanced up the stairs until he stood directly in front of her. Something about her provoked him, and he never declined a challenge.

All the girls in Florette’s bouquet were named for flowers. This one was tall, slender, and serenely composed. He lofted his hat and flashed his most devastating smile. “Iris?” he guessed. “Or is it Lily?”

Her head lowered slightly, and again he felt her study him like a diamond cutter examining a flawed stone. He heard a coach pull to the curb. Without a word, she swept gracefully down the stairs, deliberately arcing in a smooth curve to avoid him.

Moving swiftly, he beat her to the sidewalk and planted himself in her path. She went utterly still.

“Is the hackney yours?” he asked with a bow.

The veil bobbed.

His smile widened. “I am sorry to hear it. Would you not prefer to stay indoors this afternoon?”

The nod of
yes
to his first question turned quickly to a
no
as the heavy silk swirled around her face and shoulders. “I must go,” she said, in a low, husky voice. “Please.”

“This is no way to make your fortune,” he chided, fingers itching to raise the blue curtain so he could see her face. “I suggest you reconsider.”

The heel of her boot slammed down on his toe.

“Bloody hell!”
He lept out of her way.

She darted past him to the cab, but he caught up in time to cover her gloved hand on the door latch with his own. Bryn heard her sigh, as if resigning herself to an obnoxious fate. When he offered his arm to help her mount, a feathery touch at his wrist was all he felt as she lifted with the grace of a seabird riding an updraft. Then, in a singularly swift motion, she yanked the door shut, the hard edge clipping his shoulder as it whizzed by.

Witch.
He swore under his breath. Folding his arms across the bar of the open window, he peered into the dim coach. She could see him clearly through that veil, while he could see nothing of her at all. He resented her impertinence. And was annoyed with himself for his bad manners even as he persisted. For no reason he could explain, he wanted to prolong their encounter. “Shall I give the coachman your direction?” he inquired silkily. “Or join your expedition?”

Head tilted slightly, the Blue Lily raised her hand toward his cheek. For a second he thought she was going to touch him, but she reached higher, and with a sharp crackle the window shade snapped down in his face. A rap of her knuckles against the wood panel set the cab in motion, and the great back wheel barely missed rolling over his Hessian boots.

Repique,
he thought, watching the hackney lumber down the street. Apparently he was not to her taste.

He chuckled. Nor she to his, of course. Like the other blossoms in Florette’s bouquet, the Blue Lily must long since have been plucked. And if she knew who he was, she had no reason to encourage his feigned advances. The Earl of Caradoc’s requirements were met by special order. This full-blown flower, however lovely she might be under all that rigging, could expect no more from him than flattering male appreciation—from a distance.

He was amazed he’d even touched her.

Bryn mounted the stairs, handed his gloves to the burly footman, and proceeded without ceremony to Florette’s private salon. After that public and rather embarrassing display, no doubt she was fully aware he had arrived.

Seated before a delicate curve-legged table, Flo beamed at him with unconcealed amusement. Steam wafted from the antique Chinese porcelain teapot on the tray, clouding her gold-rimmed spectacles. “As you see,” she greeted him, “there is shortbread.” She held up a blue-and-white plate. “I was expecting you.”

“I daresay.” Lowering himself onto the fragile chair across from her, he gathered several of the buttery sticks in his hand and popped one whole into his mouth. Flo knew all his weaknesses.

She poured him a cup of tea and laced it with thick honey. “How very late you are,
chéri.
Marita has been gone these last few weeks. Never tell me you’ve been ill?”

The earl stretched his long legs across the Aubusson carpet. “Shall I assume Miss Sanchez reported to you”—he grinned wryly—“everything?”

Florette shook her head. “Ah, my dear, a chamber pot? What did you do, to make her so angry?”

“Devil if I know. She told me she was leaving, I said
adiós,
and that set her off. Threw everything at me she could get her hands on. The chamber pot was empty, by the way.”

“
Tsk-tsk.
A quarrel with your mistress, on your birthday. ’Twas a night to celebrate,
je crois.
”

He shrugged. “That was certainly my intention. I’d anticipated a wild Spanish
corrida,
as
only Marita could stage, but she claimed ears and tail before I got into the ring. Furious because I didn’t take her to the birthday dinner at the Laceys’, I suppose. My back-alley Spanish isn’t what it used to be.” He leaned against the cushion behind him and crossed his ankles. “No mistress, whatever her charms, is welcome at
ton
affairs,
ma fille.
I trust you’ll find me a replacement somewhat less encroaching, not to mention volatile. That little chili pepper nearly took my head off with a candlestick.”

Selecting a thin cucumber sandwich, Florette regarded it thoughtfully. “I am afraid,” she said slowly, “there will not be a replacement. Not one I can supply, at any rate.” She nibbled at the soft white bread. “As of Wednesday last, I am retired from the trade.”

The earl gazed at her blankly. “Tell me you don’t mean that,” he said in a dark voice. The consequences, at least for him, were disastrous. When she failed to reply, he levered himself from the spindly chair and aimed for the mahogany sideboard where she stowed his special vintage brandy.

Bryn took his time fixing the drink while the implications sank in. He’d never had a woman Florette didn’t find for him. What the hell was he going to do now?

Florette LaFleur was about as French as the Prince Regent. When her accent slipped he detected a faint Yorkshire drawl, but that was the only clue to her origins he’d deciphered in the years he’d known her. Like everything else between them, his attempts to penetrate her disguise turned into a game they both played for the delight of matching wits.

She must be well into her fifties by now, still attractive although her lush figure had ripened to plumpness. She’d been a spectacular beauty when they first met, to transact the sale of this very house. Lost in memories, he rummaged on the sideboard for a corkscrew and dug the sharp metal point into the cork.

She’d managed to take him royally on that deal. Bribed his solicitor, he suspected, and made off with the only thing of value he owned for half its worth. Smiling, he recalled her dismay when a skinny adolescent showed up to sign the papers. Florette concluded the sale without upping her offer, but her conscience prodded her to invite him to dinner. He jumped at the chance for a rare good meal, and the friendship forged that evening had endured for twenty years.

Swallowing two fingers of brandy in a single gulp, he refilled the glass. What would he do without Florette? She was the best thing that ever happened in his life. The afternoon they’d closed the deal on this house, with a knowing glance at his straining breeches, she’d offered him a night of pleasure to compensate him for a loss he wasn’t downy enough to recognize.

He had refused, necessarily, regretting it then as he did now. Just once, he would have liked to make love to Florette LaFleur.

Swirling the amber liquid in his glass, he remembered the first time he tasted brandy. It was in this room, that same evening, when he drank too much too fast and blurted the real reason he couldn’t touch her. After what happened to his father, he did not dare take any lover who’d ever been with another man. He expected Flo to laugh, but she drew him into her arms and hugged him warmly. Now that he thought about it, another first. A good day, all in all. He had immediately acquired a strong taste for hugs and brandy.

The night was even better. Florette obliged him with his first virgin, free of charge, a shy, petite girl only a bit more ignorant than he. She had light curly hair, he recalled fondly, and her name was Polly. Thank the stars she had a sense of humor and few expectations.

There had been three mistresses since, each one provided by Florette. She was the only one he trusted. Virginity was easily faked, and while he was expert enough by now to discern a fraud, the proof was in the taking. By then, too late for safety. He
needed
Florette! At any cost, he couldn’t afford to lose her.

“Don’t do it, Flo,” he barked over his shoulder. “If this is one of your games, it’s not funny.”

“I have already sold out,” she said calmly. “To Rose.”

“The devil you say!” Pivoting, he glared at her. “I can’t stand that woman. She’d filch pennies off a dead man’s eyes.”

“A good businesswoman, though.” Flo tapped long nails against an ivory-handled fan. “For all purposes but your own, she will do well.”

“And what
about
my purposes? I’ll have no woman that strumpet dredges from the stews.” He paced the room with one fist clenched behind his back and the other wrapped around a glass of brandy. “Tell me you are staying in London. No reason we can’t do private business.”