Lady in Blue (6 page)

She stepped back and lowered the veil. “Florette will send word,” she said ambiguously. For a moment she regarded him through dark blue silk. “Should you not summon the carriage?”

Swallowing an oath, he went to the bell cord and gave it a vicious tug. Clare was already at the door when Walters opened it.

She turned her head slightly. “I must say, Lord Caradoc, that this has been a most interesting morning.”

Before he could think to respond, she vanished down the hall.

“The man is insufferable.”
Clare paced the salon with short jerky steps, her gloved hands fisted into balls.

Florette stirred honey into her tea. “But will he have you, my dear?”

“I’m not surprised he has to pay for a woman. You should have seen him, Flo. The peacock actually built a stage for himself. He was poised there, with his hands on his hips just so.” Clare spun around and assumed a languid, sardonic pose, chin tilted, eyebrows arched, nostrils flaring slightly. “Insolence personified, he was, with light pouring over him through the windows. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. He looked down on me, a
long
way
down his nose, and said something obnoxious. Then he got worse.”

“But will he have you?” Flo repeated patiently.

“I daresay. Only because he can’t read my mind. If he knew what I thought of him, he would turn his disgusting attentions elsewhere. But it would not occur to him that any woman might find him lacking.”

“None has ever done so, to my knowledge.”

Clare glared at her.

Flo lifted a negligent hand. “Present company excepted, of course. Obviously he made a cake of himself, which does not surprise me. You are not what he expected.”

“And what was that? A simpering twit? A lecherous barmaid? What exactly does a vulgar libertine expect when he opens his wallet to buy a virgin?”

“A good deal less. I have provided the earl with every woman he has taken under his protection and can tell you that he never encountered a situation like the one he faced today. You ought to spare him a little sympathy, knowing what it is to founder in deep water.”

“So I do.” Clare ceased her pacing and rested her hands on the back of a chair. “But
I
am desperate, and he is not. In any case, he is willing to see me again, to negotiate the terms of our arrangement.” Her teeth clenched. “He has a great many terms.”

“And you do not feel you can agree with them?”

“Perhaps I could. At this point, I’d agree to almost anything. But what I cannot do is tolerate that vain, degenerate rakehell. You’ll have to find me someone else, Florette.”

“He’s handsome enough—”

“And doesn’t he know it! Whenever was any man so incredibly arrogant? Can you imagine what I’ll do when he starts ticking off rules like a headmaster?”

“I wish I could see it,” Flo said with a laugh. “But since you’ve taken his measure, what have you to lose by hearing him out? Perhaps he’ll be more amiable when next you meet. In any case, I suspect he was a bit nervous this morning.”

“Nervous! That one? He hasn’t a nerve in his body.” Clare frowned. “Although, for just one moment, he seemed almost . . . but no. I must have mistaken him. From beginning to end his behavior was insupportable.”

Florette sighed. She’d expected Bryn to be much kinder to the girl. Clare was fragile as thin glass, for all her poise. Had he not seen that? Perhaps this tangle was her own fault. She’d wanted to make him curious, but it seemed she’d only made him defensive. Or offensive, from all accounts. The earl had not begun well, that was certain, but he’d accomplished something important. Clare was angry. Furious. Stomping the salon like a provoked bull. That was, Flo thought, very very good. Worth the risk of sending her back into the arena with Bryn Talgarth.

“Sit down, my dear,” she said pacifically. “Have some tea and tell me all about it.”

“I can’t sit down. Which reminds me, he’s got this chair, all carved wood and gold brocade padding, that whirls around in a circle. He uses it like a throne. And he leans forward with his elbows propped on the desk and his hands like this”—she templed her fingers under her chin—“and says,
Well, Miss Easton, what is it that makes you worth ten thousand pounds?
I wanted to tell him,
You do!
”
She chuckled. “Actually, I did tell him that, in a way. What I really wanted was to double the price. Triple it. There must be someone else, Florette.”

“Probably so. Many would pay a fortune for you, although few could afford it. And those who could—” She shivered delicately. “I do not allow such men in my establishment. Come here, Clare. Sit down and listen to me very carefully.”

The serious tone sent Clare obediently to a chair across from Flo, who gestured at the tea tray. Clare shook her head and folded her hands in her lap.

“My dear, the same . . . taste . . . that convinces a man to pay a high price to bed a virgin is often mated to cruelty. I will not entrust your safety to such a man. Such is not the case with the Earl of Caradoc. And no matter how angry he makes you, nor how angry you make him, he will never do you harm.”

Clare stared at her folded hands for a long time. When she looked up, her eyes held the same controlled blankness that first drove Flo to try and help her. “The truth is, I haven’t many choices, have I? I must acquire the money, and there is no other way.”

“You know there is.”

Clare smiled and shook her head. “Let us be frank. You were acquainted with my mother, many years ago, and for the sake of that friendship you wish to assist me. I am grateful beyond words. But you’ve lost money on the ’Change, too much to consider making me a loan I’ll never be able to repay unless I do later what I am trying to do now.”

“And you are too proud to accept a gift.” Flo clucked into her teacup and set it on the tray. “I have more than enough money from selling the Hothouse to retire comfortably. In the country, far from temptation, I shall not be so eager to take flyers on tips from my patrons. Playing the ’Change is like gambling, if you do it the way I have done. Somehow the money never seemed real, and I never understood it was gone until too late. Away from London, pottering in my garden, I shall let my banker invest for three percent and dwindle into a cozy old age.”

Clare looked mulish. “Whatever your financial circumstances, I’ll not become your dependent. Good heavens, you know better than anyone the circumstances that drive a woman to sell herself. And I’m not planning on a career. I’ve only to endure one man’s lust, take his money, and fulfill my obligations.”

Flo regarded her steadily. “Then you will meet the earl tomorrow?”

“I suppose so.” Clare spoke in a resigned voice. “But don’t be surprised if he turns me away. I suspect he is playing with me, like a little boy taking apart a watch to figure out what makes it tick. Once he does, I’ll be out with the rubbish.”

“It is possible,” Flo said, “that he can put you back together again. He has a way with inventions, I hear.”

“You are doing nothing,” Clare said between tight lips, “to win your case for him. Whirling chairs indeed!” She picked up an almond biscuit. “Just why is it, if he is so different from the men you won’t let me meet, that the lofty Earl of Caradoc insists on bedding a virgin?”

“Ah, that you must ask him.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Of course I do. But as you made me promise I would tell him absolutely nothing about you, not even your real name, I owe the same discretion to him. Whatever you discover about each other, or choose to reveal about yourselves, is not my concern.”

“Not even a tiny little hint?” Clare’s dimple winked.

“Oh, perhaps one or two, between women. We do start at a disadvantage in most ways, although we control the greatest power of all. As for the earl, I can tell you that he will never break his word or fail to honor an agreement. He will also”—she reached for the teapot—“see to it that all agreements go his way. He has snares concealed in his traps, and pits dug underneath.”

“Then I shall stay airborne at all times. What else? You said
two
hints.”

Flo grinned. “Not precisely. Only this: If you are bound on the course you’ve set, you will do no better than Caradoc. And if you won’t see him again, I cannot help you unless you accept the money I’ve offered. It is your choice, my dear.”

Clare brushed crumbs from her skirt. “I have lived too long on the kindness of those who could not afford it, Florette. And I tried too long to make my own way, without success. Had I only myself to consider . . . but you know how things are. And if you say that odious coxcomb is the best you can produce, so be it. At the least, I’ll meet with him one more time. Better to get it over with, so let’s set the encounter for tomorrow morning. Will you let him know?”

“I’ll ask him to send a carriage for you at eleven o’clock. Would you care to stay here tonight?”

Clare shuddered. “No, I’ll return to the post house and come back in time for the appointment. You needn’t get up so early. Just be sure someone will let me in.”

Flo laughed. Even the servants rarely stirred before noon in this house. “Come at nine, and we’ll have breakfast together.”

“I don’t dare eat anything before I see him again,” Clare said with a grimace. “The Earl of Caradoc turns my stomach.”

When Clare was gone,
Bryn went to the place where she’d stood and turned to face the mirror. He could see himself clearly, as Clare must have seen her own naked body. As she must have seen his eyes, looking back at her.

What had possessed him? Even now, with the results limned on his memory, he wasn’t sure why he ordered her to unclothe herself. He’d never done that before, with any other woman. Nor was he certain how Clare felt about it. From her tranquil expression and fathomless eyes, she might well have been proud to show herself. She had every reason to be.

More likely she thought him a degenerate goat.

His gaze lowered and caught sight of a small button on the carpet. It was blue, like her dress, with a tail of dark thread. He picked it up and rolled it between his fingers. Already the ten minutes since she left seemed an eternity. In another hour he’d be climbing the walls unless he found something to distract him.

Stuffing the button in his pocket, he went to his desk and scribbled a note on the back on an engraved card. Robert Lacey always had interesting plans for the evening.

BRYN HAD JUST abandoned an untouched luncheon, served on a tray at his desk, when the viscount’s reply was delivered. He prepared himself for an exercise in cryptography. Lacey’s handwriting had been the despair of Wellington, who frequently summoned Colonel Lord Talgarth to decipher an obscure dispatch. This one appeared to say
Frog Wetherford’s balls. Ten. Pick me up horse in Claridges. Claws too. Sorry. Lazy.

No challenge at all. He was to pick up Claude and Lacey in his carriage at ten o’clock.
Horse
had to be
house,
presumably Lacey’s, and apparently Lord Wetherford was hosting a ball.

He groaned. High-stakes gaming better suited his mood, but for some doubtless compelling reason Lacey had to do the pretty tonight. Damn right he ought to be sorry. But they could look in on the ball and escape early to one of the clubs. No one expected Lord Heydon or the Earl of Caradoc to remain long at a society affair.

Midafternoon, another messenger arrived. Clare had agreed to meet with him again, tomorrow morning at eleven, and would await his carriage at the Hothouse. After her signature, Flo appended a postscript:
Behave yourself!

He nearly shouted for joy. Tomorrow! He would see her again tomorrow. Immediately he wrote a letter of instructions to Mrs. Beaks, the housekeeper at Clouds, and spent the rest of the afternoon selecting books to take with him.

He suspected there were no books at Clouds, and Clare liked to read. It was oddly pleasant, choosing a small library for her, guessing what she would enjoy. He wound up picking his own favorites, thinking how relaxing it would be to have her read to him in her low, husky voice.

Tomorrow she would be his. With his own fingers he’d undo her buttons. Take down her long hair.

But first he had to dispel her first impression of him and convince her to stay.

“SORRY TO KEEP you waiting.” Robert Lacey swung into the carriage, grinning at Bryn’s impatient expression. “Brummell here couldn’t tie a knot.”

Claude Howitt settled beside Lacey, placid as always. “I’m no hand with a cravat. Hate the damn things.”

Bryn tapped the overhead panel with his cane to signal the driver. “I suppose you have an explanation for this outrage, Lace. Why are we wasting a perfectly good evening at a bloody ball?”

“No escape,” Lacey said in a mournful voice. “And don’t think I didn’t try. Isabella put the screws to me.”

Bryn chuckled. Isabella had covered her brother’s tracks during a notably wild childhood, being possessed of a bedroom with a window that could be accessed by means of a large tree for predawn sneaking home. She’d been calling in favors ever since. “What stake has the fair Dizzy in a
ton
ball? And what did you mean by Frog Wetherford? The marquess has a beak like a toucan.”

“
Frau,
fool. Frau Wetherford. German, don’t you know. She’s bringing out a chit tonight, and Izzy likes the girl. Said I was to show up and dance with her or else.”

“We’re going to a bloody come-out? You might have warned me.”

“You wouldn’t have come,” Lacey said amiably. “Snagging you for this party has put me in Izzy’s good books for a change. She is hellbent to see that Elizabeth Landry makes a splash tonight.”

“Landry? You can’t mean the baron’s whelp. Why the devil would Wetherford sponsor a girl of no breeding?”

Lacey chuckled. “Wetherford is the only man in England stupid enough to owe money to Giles Landry. I expect Izzy arranged the deal. Frau Wetherford likes to play hostess, Elizabeth is treated to a grand ball, and Landry doesn’t get his hands on cash he’d gamble away. Smart woman, Izzy. She’s fond of Elizabeth and says the chit is nothing like her father. You are expected to dance with her.”

“The hell I will,” Bryn said crossly.

Claude spoke up. “You could be wrong, Lace. Giles Landry is so deep in River Tick that nothing can save him. Perhaps he is trying to secure his daughter’s future before he’s clapped in Newgate.”

“Claude, you’d make excuses for Attila the Hun.” Lacey crossed his arms behind his head. “Landry plans to sell her off. A rich son-in-law is his last chance to stay out of prison.”

Bryn nodded. “But what does Izzy expect
you
to do about it? Surely not marry the girl. Your income wouldn’t dredge a minnow out of River Tick.”

He laughed. “I am by way of a decoy. Or maybe a lure. I dance with Elizabeth, and first thing you know she has that cachet only the attention of London’s best-looking bachelor can provide. One can only imagine her success if London’s richest—”

“Forget it.” In his present mood, Bryn didn’t think he ought to come within touching range of female flesh. “I’ll make my bow for Izzy’s sake, but no more than that.”

“Well,
I’m
going to dance with her,” Claude said staunchly. “Can’t be easy, standing there all by herself like she’s up for auction. What’s worse, only a rich old deviant would pay a fortune to have her.”

Bryn went cold.

“Unless she becomes the fashion,” Lacey pointed out. “And that’s where we come in. We’ll stay an hour or two, Bryn. Then we’ll have a late supper at Watier’s and you can head out for Clouds. How is Marita these days? Still a wild woman?”

“She’s gone. Took herself where—let me see if I can translate this for polite company—where all the men are hung like stallions and she doesn’t have to ride the same one every night.”

“That filly was born to run,” Lacey said with a laugh. “Is she back at the Hothouse? I wouldn’t mind a steeplechase.”

“As I understand it, Marita will be playing
corridas
in the south of Spain. And I’ve bad news for you, coxcomb. The estimable Florette is going out to pasture. She has retired.”

“What?” Lacey sat up. “She’s closing shop? What the hell are we going to do? More to the point, what are
you
going to do?”

“Find someone else, I suppose. Any suggestions? You’re on terms with every madam from here to Bayswater.”

“There is only one Florette. Damn. I’m going there tonight and talk her out of it.”

“Flo can’t afford to retire,” Claude put in. “Lost a bundle on the ’Change.”

“Did she?” The Earl regarded him with interest. Claude did not patronize the Hothouse or any other establishment, but he had his finger on much of importance in London. “I wouldn’t put it past her to bait me, just to watch me squirm.”

“That must be it.” Lacey
whooshed
in relief. “She wanted to see your reaction when she threatened to cut off your supply of vir—”

Bryn’s cane hit his knee.

“Ow!” Lacey scowled at him. “I need that leg for dancing.”

Shrugging, Bryn fixed his gaze on Claude. “Use all your mysterious sources and see what you can find out. By the way, what if I want to trace someone’s background? Family and all that?”

“A Bow Street Runner, I expect. Want me to put you on to a good ’un?”

“Do that. Talk to my secretary first thing tomorrow.”

Lacey leaned forward, still rubbing his knee. “Trouble, Bryn?”

“What do you think? Florette is, as she so chipperly put it, throwing me back on the streets. Meantime, I’m in a coach with the two most boring individuals of my acquaintance, on my way to a schoolgirl’s first ball.” He raised his cane in a salute as the coach pulled up behind a long line of carriages, two blocks from the Wetherford mansion. “Cheers, gentlemen. Let’s get out and walk.”

FEW THINGS, BRYN thought as he edged his way down the receiving line, were as dampening to lust as the stench of a crowd in a closed ballroom. He made straight for the terrace and fresh air.

He’d been there several minutes before realizing he wasn’t alone. Concealed behind a potted tree, huddled on a marble bench, a small shape was trying to make itself invisible. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said. “Did you wish to be alone?”

“I rather wished to breathe.” A young girl with dark hair, small and slender in her white dress, moved gracefully toward him.

He bowed, hoping she would leave him to his solitude. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?”

“I must be,” she said lightly. “This is my come-out ball.”

The top of her head scarcely reached his shoulder. A pretty girl, he thought, smiling at her. “Then you must be Miss Landry. Iz—Isabella’s friend.”

“Yes, I am Beth Landry. And Lady Isabella has been most kind. I cannot think why, since she scarcely knows me. We became acquainted by accident at the British Museum.”

“Elgin marbles?” Bryn guessed.

Her laugh was delicious. “How did you know?”

He lifted her white-gloved hand and brushed his lips across her fingers. “At the moment, Isabella is obsessed with Greek antiquities. It won’t last. Within a month she’ll be on another tear. I have known Isabella since she was in pigtails, so perhaps we need not be formally introduced. I am Caradoc.”

“Oh.” She looked a bit flustered. “I have heard much about you.”

“Believe little that you hear, Miss Landry, in
ton
ballrooms. And less if you hear it from eccentric widows with more impertinence than sense. Isabella does not confine herself to tormenting family, but stretches her claws to encompass the innocent friends of her brother.”

“Innocent,” Miss Landry said with suspicious demureness, “was not the first word that came to mind when you introduced yourself.”

He grinned. The chit had spark. Not so timid as he’d first thought, when he saw her clutching her arms around her chest on that bench like a lost little girl. He regarded her with more interest. “If this is your debut, Miss Landry, why are you not dancing?”

She gestured to the card dangling from her wrist. “I expect I shall not be missed for the next hour or two.”

He didn’t have to look to know the card was empty. “As a matter of fact, I know of two gentlemen scouring the ballroom, their toes positively itching to dance with you.”

She giggled.

Bryn despised giggling women, but for some reason this one didn’t irritate him. “Would you allow me to partner you before you are besieged with offers? I have no taste for country dances, though. Do you waltz?”

“I know how, but—”