Mistress (27 page)

“What would you know about finding happiness with a woman?” Bennet asked bitterly. “You have made so many bloody rules for yourself that you can no longer find any joy in your life.”

“Get out of here, Bennet.”

“So be it. I will not ask for your good wishes, then.” Bennet stalked toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “Do you know something, brother? I believe that I actually feel sorry for you.”

“Don’t waste your sympathy on me. You will need it for yourself if you go through with this marriage to Juliana Dorchester.”

Bennet went out of the chamber without a word. He slammed the door so hard that the electricity machine shuddered on its bench.

Marcus reached down and snapped the switch that released the springs within the mechanical man. Wheels and gears clanked and whirred as the clockwork butler jerked into action.

The automaton lurched blindly forward, silver salver extended.

Marcus watched the progress of the soulless creature
as it crossed the laboratory. How easy it was to be an automaton, guided only by a mechanical spring.

The artificial man stared straight ahead, looking neither to the right nor to the left, heedless of what lay before it or behind it. It had no past and no future. Its present was governed by the inflexible rules of a mechanical universe.

It did not know pain.

But neither did it know joy.

“There is a small item in the morning papers concerning the death of Mrs. Wycherley,” Zoe said. “No mention of her being a blackmailer, of course. Good lord, who would believe it?” She flung herself back against the elegant curve of her red velvet Roman sofa. “It is utterly astounding.”

“It is the only conclusion that Masters and I were able to reach.” Iphiginia picked up her teacup.

“I can hardly credit it,” Zoe said. “It is simply too fantastical.”

Lord Otis’s bushy brows drew together in a considering scowl. “Has a certain logic to it when you think about it.”

“Yes, it does,” Amelia said. “It explains why Iphiginia could not discover a clear link between Guthrie’s circle of friends and that of Lord Masters. There wasn’t one.”

“So much for all my clandestine searches for black sealing wax and a seal engraved with a phoenix.” Iphiginia heaved a small sigh of regret. “I was so certain that I was on to something there.”

“How positively brilliant of Masters to hit upon the notion of making inquiries into the whereabouts of our former paid companions,” Zoe said in tones of great admiration.

Iphiginia rolled her eyes. “His original hypothesis was
not entirely correct, you know. Neither of the companions proved to be the blackmailer.”

“No, but his theory led straight to the real blackmailer,” Otis observed. “Man has an excellent intellect.”

Iphiginia made a face. “Yes, and he is well aware of it.”

Amelia gave her one of her infrequent smiles. “I do believe that you are somewhat jealous, Iphiginia.”

“Well, I was quite partial to my own hypothesis,” she admitted. “Masters’s notion is fascinating, however. And Otis is right, it’s very logical. Just think, all those years Mrs. Wycherley was using certain governesses and companions to collect damning information about some of the best families.”

“I never really cared for Miss Todd,” Zoe said. “She had eyes that reminded me of a small rat. I did not retain her for long.”

“You should have let her go much earlier than you did,” Amelia remarked. “She was obviously around long enough to conclude that Maryanne was not Guthrie’s daughter.”

“Obviously.” Zoe shook her head. “One wonders how many other victims the woman had. Is every house in London infested with spies?”

“I doubt it.” Iphiginia pursed her lips. “From all indications, Mrs. Wycherley was very selective and quite cautious, at least until recently. She no doubt chose her victims carefully.”

“Hah.” Otis’s whiskers twitched. “She made a serious blunder when she undertook to expand her list of victims to include my Zoe and a good friend of the Earl of Masters, by God.”

“Yes,” Iphiginia said. “She did.”

“Well, it’s over at last, thank heavens.” Zoe helped herself to a small pink cake from the tea tray. “Now we can get on with the Season. I confess I have had some difficulty planning Maryanne’s marriage, what with this blackmail business hanging over my head.”

Otis gave Iphiginia a shrewd look. “Masters is certain this is the end of the matter?”

Iphiginia hesitated. “He seems quite satisfied that it is.”

“Well, then, that’s the end of it,” Otis declared.

“Yes.” Iphiginia rose to her feet and picked up her white bonnet. “Amelia and I must be on our way. We have an appointment with our man of affairs. Perhaps we shall see you at the theater later this evening.”

“Very likely,” Zoe said cheerfully. “What a relief it will be to be able to sit in my box without wondering if a blackmailer’s eyes are fastened upon me.”

“There’s just one more thing.” Iphiginia fixed each of the other three in turn with a deliberate look. “I trust that you all realize that merely because the blackmail situation is finished, nothing else has changed.”

Zoe looked blank. “Whatever are you talking about, Iphiginia?”

“For all intents and purposes, I am still Mrs. Bright so far as Society is concerned.”

“Damnation,” Otis exclaimed. “She’s right. Cannot go changing her identity at this point. She’d be ruined.”

“We agreed at the beginning of this affair that when the matter was resolved I would disappear discreetly from the scene,” Iphiginia said. “But I have changed my mind.”

Zoe eyed her with grave interest. “You’re going to finish the Season as Masters’s mistress?”

“Yes.”

Zoe exchanged uneasy glances with Amelia and Otis. Then she turned back to Iphiginia. “Masters has agreed to this plan?”

“More or less,” Iphiginia said airily. There was no point in telling them that Marcus had actually insisted on marriage. She feared that they would all side with him.

And Iphiginia knew that she could not possibly marry Marcus unless she could find a way to make him fall in love with her.

Discovering the identity of the blackmailer had been a simple matter compared with her new problem.

She was confronted with the daunting task of persuading Marcus to change his own rules.

Iphiginia was aware of Amelia’s deep silence as they walked down the front steps of Zoe’s town house. Her companion said nothing until they had each been handed up into Iphiginia’s white and gilt carriage.

“Out with it, Amelia.” Iphiginia settled back against the white velvet cushions and arranged her skirts. “What is troubling you?”

Amelia watched her closely. “I sensed that you hesitated when you told your aunt and Lord Otis that you were certain the blackmail matter was concluded. Something is worrying you.”

The little carriage started to roll forward. Iphiginia looked out the window. It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon. The street was filled with fashionable carriages en route to the park.

“What bothers me,” she said slowly, “is that Masters and I searched Mrs. Wycherley’s desk before we left yesterday.”

“So?”

“So we did not discover a seal engraved with a phoenix. Nor did we find any sign of black wax in her wax jack.”

“I can promise you that Constance Wycherley was many things, but she was no fool. She must have lived in constant fear of discovery. She would not have left any obvious evidence of her guilt lying about.”

“That’s what Marcus said. But if she was so very clever—shrewd enough to get away with blackmail, in point of fact—why did she make the serious mistake of trying to blackmail a friend of Masters? She must have known that she ran the risk of drawing him into the business.”

“Perhaps she had gotten away with blackmail for so long that she had grown quite bold,” Amelia suggested.
“Or perhaps she got greedier. She may have needed more money to cover gaming debts or some such thing. Who can say?”

“I suppose we shall never have all the answers.”

“Come, Iphiginia. You have already admitted that what is really disturbing you now is that Masters’s hypothesis was the correct one.”

“My own was really quite good, you know.”

“It was. It just happened to be the wrong hypothesis. Now that the affair is over, what do you intend to do about your other problem?”

“What other problem?”

“I heard what you said in Aunt Zoe’s drawing room, but we both know that you cannot continue to masquerade as Masters’s mistress indefinitely.”

“I can carry on with it until the end of the Season.” Iphiginia cleared her throat delicately. “And you may as well know that it is not, strictly speaking, a masquerade.”

Amelia studied her with shadowed eyes. “I was very much afraid of that.”

Iphiginia gripped the strings of her white lace reticule. “Do not worry about me, Amelia.”

“You are not only my cousin, you are my dearest friend. I cannot help but worry about you.”

“Concern yourself with the financial arrangements for Bright Place. It will prove infinitely more profitable.”

“He will discard you without a qualm when he grows tired of you. You know that, do you not?”

“Perhaps I shall grow tired of him first,” Iphiginia said lightly.

“I wish I could believe that. I do not suppose there is anything I can say that will dissuade you from continuing on with this reckless business?”

“No. But you may take heart from knowing that when the Season ends, my association with Masters will likely end also.”

“What will you do then?”

“Oversee the construction of Bright Place. Devote
myself to my plans for a pattern book of classical designs.” Iphiginia smiled wistfully. “There are any number of interesting projects ahead of me, Amelia. I assure you that I shall not fall into a complete decline when my liaison with Masters is over.”

“I am well aware of how strong you are, Iphiginia. Still, I do not want to see you hurt.”

“It is too late to save me. I am determined to enjoy this grand adventure, Amelia. There will not be another one remotely similar to it, you know. Masters is quite unique.”

Marcus inclined his head aloofly when he saw Hannah and her husband in the theater lobby that evening. Sands glowered at him, nodded stiffly in return, and then pointedly turned away to greet someone else. It was not quite the cut direct, but it was close.

Hannah gave Marcus a nervous smile. There was a look of near-desperation in her eyes.

The glittering throng of theatergoers acted as a hunting box blind. It allowed Marcus to get very close to Hannah for a few vital seconds without arousing Sands’s suspicions.

“It’s finished,” Marcus whispered as he brushed past Hannah. “The blackmailer was Mrs. Wycherley. She is dead.”

Hannah searched his face. “I saw the news in the morning papers and wondered what had happened.” Her eyes widened suddenly. “Marcus, you did not—”

“No. I believe one of her victims did the deed.”

“Good heavens.”

“Come, my dear.” Sands took her arm. His eyes narrowed when he saw Marcus gliding on past his wife into the crowd. “I shall fetch you a glass of lemonade.”

Marcus pretended not to notice as Hannah was whisked away through the throng. He regretted the animosity that Sands felt toward him, but in truth he could
not blame the man for his wary, watchful attitude. Marcus recognized that he experienced a similar sense of possessiveness toward Iphiginia these days.

He made his way through the lobby and went up the red-carpeted staircase. It was intermission. The corridor behind the first tier of boxes was nearly as crowded as the lobby.

Gentlemen bustled back and forth, fetching refreshments for their ladies. Others ambled out into the hall to exchange gossip with their cronies or visit those in neighboring boxes. A handful of young bucks brushed past Marcus. They were obviously on their way to call upon the elegant courtesans who displayed their wares in some of the most expensive boxes.

Marcus nodded to a few acquaintances as he walked along the curved corridor. When he reached the box on the end, he pushed aside the heavy curtain and stepped inside.

Dorchester, his sharp-eyed wife, and the lovely Juliana turned to stare in astonishment.

“Good evening,” Marcus said. “Enjoying the performance?”

Dorchester’s start of surprise became an expression of great caution. “Masters. Didn’t know you were attending tonight’s performance.”

“My lord. How nice to see you.” Beatrice Dorchester was clearly as stunned by Marcus’s appearance in the box as she would have been by the appearance of a ghost. “Juliana, make your curtsy to his lordship.”

Juliana leaped to her feet as though she had been jolted by a spark from an electricity machine. “My lord.”

“Mrs. Dorchester. Miss Juliana.” Marcus surveyed them both briefly. “You’re both looking very fine this evening.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Mrs. Dorchester was almost painfully relieved by his civility. “Won’t you sit down for a few moments? Pray, take the seat next to Juliana.”

“Thank you. I believe I will.”

He sat down carefully on one of the spindly little chairs. It groaned in protest, but it did not crumple beneath his weight. “I understand Kean is in excellent form tonight.”

“Yes, indeed. The man can certainly act even when he’s in his cups,” Dorchester said with an air of hearty good humor.

“Just as well, as he is as drunk as a wheelbarrow most of the time, from all accounts,” Marcus said.

“Yes, well, you know how it is with these actors,” Dorchester murmured. “Very unstable lot.”

“They’re not the only ones who are unstable.” Marcus surveyed the vast theater. He ignored the crowded pit and the galleries and concentrated on the tiers of boxes. He spotted Iphiginia immediately.

She glowed in a classically simple white gown. White plumes wafted gracefully from her hair, which was parted in the middle and neatly coiled over her ears. A crystal necklace sparkled around her throat.

She was not alone in the box. Amelia sat on her left. As Marcus watched, the curtains behind the two women parted. Herbert Hoyt entered, dapper as always in a blue coat, paisley waistcoat, and pleated trousers. He held a glass of lemonade in each of his gloved hands.