More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (15 page)

“We were beginning to think you were enjoying playing court at Dudley House, Tresh,” Viscount Kimble said, “and were going to settle to it for life.”

“With the delectable Miss Ingleby to minister to your needs,” Baron Pottier added. “You are wearing your boots again, Tresham?”

“Would I come to White's in my dancing slippers?” Jocelyn raised his eyebrows.

But Sir Isaac Wallman had picked up on an interesting detail. “The delectable Miss Ingleby?” he said. “The nurse? The one who screamed during the duel? Ho, Tresham, you rogue. Now how exactly has she been ministering to your needs?”

Jocelyn raised his quizzing glass and regarded the little dandy through it, looking him over slowly from head to toe.

“Tell me, Wallman,” he said in his most bored accents, “at what ungodly hour of the night did you have to rise to give your valet time to create that artistry with your neckcloth?” It would have been overelaborate even for the grandest of grand balls. Though maybe not for a soiree with the Regent, that prince of dandies.

“It took him a full hour,” Sir Isaac replied with some pride, instantly distracted. “And he ruined eight neckcloths before he got it right with this one.”

Jocelyn lowered his glass while Viscount Kimble snorted derisively.

The pleasantries over with, the conversation moved to the London-to-Brighton curricle race set for two days hence and to the somewhat reclusive presence in London of the Earl of Durbury, who had come to search for his son's murderess. It was a major disappointment to several of the gentlemen present that the earl was not appearing everywhere in order to regale a bored
ton
with the macabre details.

Sidney Jardine, who had been elevated to the position of heir to an earldom on the accession of his father to the title a year or so before, had never been popular with his peers. Jocelyn's only dealings with him had come during a
ton
ball a couple of years before when Jardine, in his grace's hearing, had made a coarse remark fully intended for the ears of a young lady and her mama, who had both declined his invitation to the former to dance. Jocelyn had invited the man to stroll with him on the terrace beyond the ballroom.

There he had instructed Jardine pleasantly enough to
take himself off home without further ado or to hell if he preferred unless he chose to stay and have his mouth washed with soap. And when a furiously bristling Jardine had tried to issue a challenge, Jocelyn had raised his quizzing glass to his eye and informed his would-be adversary that it was an immutable rule with him to duel only with gentlemen.

“I am of the school of thought,” he said now, “that Lady Sara Illingsworth should be congratulated rather than censured. If she is wise, though, she will have removed herself far from London by now.”

“She did not go by stage, though, Tresh,” Viscount Kimble said. “I have heard that the Runners have done a thorough investigation. No one of her description has been traveling on any one of them.”

“She has learned wisdom since her arrival here, then,” Jocelyn said. “Good for her. I daresay she was provoked. Why else would any young lady bash a gentleman over the head?”

“You should know, Tresham,” Sir Isaac said with a titter, and won for himself another steady perusal through the ducal quizzing glass.

“Where is Ferdinand stabling his new horses?” Jocelyn asked of the group at large, though he was still looking at an enlarged and visibly uncomfortable Sir Isaac. “And where does he exercise them? I daresay he is busy preparing them for the race. I had better get over there and see if he is like to murder himself on Friday. He was never the world's most skilled judge of horseflesh.”

“I'll come with you, Tresh,” Viscount Kimble offered as Jocelyn lowered his foot from the stool and turned to grasp his cane. “Do you need any assistance?”

“Come within three feet of me at your peril!” Jocelyn
growled while he hoisted himself upright as gracefully as he was able and gritted his teeth at the needle-sharp pain that shot up his right leg. “And I don't need your escort, Kimble. I came in the carriage.”

It was an admission that aroused a fresh burst of amusement and witticisms from his acquaintances, of course.

Jane would give him a royal scolding for this when he got home, Jocelyn thought, and was instantly annoyed at himself for even thinking of home.

He found his brother exactly where he expected to find him, exercising and training his new horses. At least Ferdinand had a good eye for his matched pair, Jocelyn discovered with some relief. They were not just a pretty pair, but superb goers too. The trouble was, of course, that Ferdinand had not had the handling of them for nearly long enough to race them, besides which point he was a restless and impulsive and reckless young man—a typical Dudley, in fact—with impatient hands and a tendency to make colorful use of all the most profane words in his vocabulary when he was frustrated.

“You have to let your hands talk firmly yet seductively,” Jocelyn said with a sigh after one particularly hair-raising tirade occasioned by the horses' refusal to act as a team. “And you have to give your voice a rest, Ferdinand, or by the time you reach Brighton there will be none of it left with which to cheer your own victory.”

“Damned cattle,” his brother grumbled. “I have bought a couple of prima donnas.”

“What you have bought,” Jocelyn told him, “is an excellent pair that was cheap at the price. What you have
to do, preferably before Friday, is teach them who is master.”

He was not entirely without hope of winning his substantial bet at White's. Ferdinand was a notable whip though a somewhat erratic one, who appeared to believe that superiority consisted in taking unnecessary risks.

“Now, with
your
curricle, Tresham,” Ferdinand said with studied nonchalance, “I would leave Berriwether five miles behind my dust. It is lighter and better sprung than my own.”

“You will have to be content to leave him only two miles behind your dust, then,” Jocelyn said dryly.

“I'll be giving Wesley Forbes a thrashing one of these days,” Ferdinand said later when the brothers were relaxing in his bachelor rooms, Jocelyn with his right foot up on a low table. “He was making offensive remarks at Wattier's last night about people who stagger about on crutches to convince the world of their weakness but forget which leg they are supposed to have injured. Sometimes they lurch along with the right leg raised, he said, and sometimes with the left. He thinks he is the world's sharpest wit.”

Jocelyn sipped on his glass of claret. “He could not have been referring to me, then, could he?” he remarked. “Don't be drawn, Ferdinand. You do not need a brawl this side of the race. And never on my behalf. The very idea!”

“I would have planted him a facer right there in the card room,” Ferdinand said, “if Max Ritterbaum had not grabbed my arm and dragged me off to Brookes's. The thing is, Tresh, that not a one of them will have the bottom to say anything like it to your face. And you can be
damned sure that none of them will be decent enough to slap a glove across your cheek. They are too craven.”

“Leave them to me,” Jocelyn said. “Concentrate on the race.”

“Let me refill your glass,” Ferdinand said. “Have you seen Angeline's latest monstrosity?”

“A bonnet?” Jocelyn asked. “The mustard one? Atrocious.”

“Blue,” his brother said, “with violet stripes. She wanted me to take her walking in the park with it perched on her head. I told her that either it or I would go strolling with her, but not both together. I would be the laughingstock, Tresham. Our sister was born with a ghastly affliction: no taste. Why Heyward encourages her by paying the bills is beyond me.”

“Besotted with her,” Jocelyn said. “As she is with him. No one would ever guess it to see them together, or
not
together, which is more often the case. They are as discreet about it as if they were clandestine lovers.”

Ferdinand barked with laughter. “Lord,” he said, “imagine anyone besotted with Angie!”

“Or with Heyward,” his brother agreed, idly swinging his quizzing glass from its ribbon.

It was an enormous relief, he reflected some time later as he made his way home, to be getting his life back to normal.

I
F
J
ANE HAD THOUGHT
for one moment that what had happened the night before had meant something to the Duke of Tresham, it did not take her long to learn the truth. Not that she
had
thought it, but sometimes one's emotions defied reason.

He did not return home until late in the afternoon. And even then he did not summon Jane, but closeted himself in the library with Mr. Quincy. It was almost dinnertime before he sent for her.

He was still in the library. He was seated on the chaise longue, his right leg elevated on the cushion. He was fully dressed minus his right boot. He was also scowling.

“Not one word,” he said before she had even thought of opening her mouth. “Not a single word, Miss Ingleby. Of course it is sore and of course Barnard had the devil of a time pulling off my boot. But it is time it was exercised, and it is time I took myself off out of here during the daytime. Else I will descend to rape and debauchery.”

She had not expected him to refer to last night after being absent all day. Last night seemed rather like a dream. Not perhaps their embrace, which was something so far beyond her experience or expectations that she could not possibly have imagined it, but the sight and sound of the Duke of Tresham playing the pianoforte and coaxing magic from its keys.

“I suppose,” he said, turning his black eyes and his blacker scowl on her for the first time, “you thought it was love, Jane? Or affection? Or some fine emotion at least?”

“No, your grace,” she said. “I am not as naïve as you seem to think me. I recognized it as physical desire on both our parts. Why should I believe that a self-acknowledged rake would have any fine feelings for his servant? And why would you fear that a woman like me would fall for your dangerous and legendary charm
when I have been subjected to your ill temper and profane tongue for more than two weeks?”

“Why would I
fear
?” His eyes narrowed. “I might have guessed that you would have the last word on the subject, Jane. How foolish of me to imagine that I seriously discomposed you last night.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I daresay your leg is somewhat swollen. You will need to bathe it in cold water. Keep it submerged for a while.”

“And freeze my toes?”

“I imagine,” she told him, “that that discomfort is better than watching them turn black over the coming weeks.”

He pursed his lips and there seemed for a moment to be a smile lurking in his eyes. But he did not give in to it.

“If you are planning to go out again tomorrow,” she said, “I beg leave to be given the morning free, your grace.”

“Why?” His frown returned.

Her clasped hands turned cold and clammy at the very thought of her reason, but she could no longer give in to the paralysis of terror. She must sooner or later venture beyond the sheltering doors of Dudley House.

“It is time I looked for other employment,” she said. “I have less than one week left here. Indeed, I am not really needed now. I never have been. You never needed a nurse.”

He stared at her. “You would leave me, would you then, Jane?”

She had been firmly repressing the pain she felt at the thought of doing just that. The pain just did not have either a rational or worthy cause. Though, of course, she
had seen a startlingly different side to him in the music room last night.

“My employment here will soon be at an end, your grace,” she reminded him.

“Who says so?” He was staring at her broodingly. “What poppycock you speak when you have nothing else to which to go.”

Hope stirred. She had half thought of asking him—or of asking the housekeeper, who hired the servants—if she could stay on as a housemaid or scullery maid. But she did not believe she would do so. She would not be able to bear living on at Dudley House in a more menial capacity than the one she had held so far. Not that she could allow pride to dictate her actions, of course.

“It was agreed,” she said, “that I remain to nurse you while your injury forced you to remain inactive. For three weeks.”

“There is still almost a week left, then,” he said. “I will not hear of your searching for something else, Jane, until your time here has been served. I do not pay you to spend your mornings flitting all over London looking for an employer who will pay you more than I do. How much
do
I pay you?”

“More than I earn,” she said. “Money is not the issue, your grace.”

But he was being stubborn. “I will hear no more about it for at least another week, then,” he said. “But I have a job for you on Thursday evening, Jane. Tomorrow. And I will pay you well for it too. I will pay you what you deserve.”

She looked warily at him.

“Don't stand by the damned door as if poised for flight,” he said irritably. “If I wished to pounce on you, I
would do so no matter what the distance. Come closer. Sit down here.”

He pointed to the chair where she usually sat.

There was no point in arguing that at least. She did as she was told even though doing so brought her uncomfortably within the aura of his masculinity. She could smell his cologne and remembered how it had been very much a part of last night's sensual experience.

“I am hosting a grand entertainment here tomorrow evening,” he said. “Quincy is just now writing out the invitations and having them delivered. There will be only a day's notice for the invited guests, of course, but they will almost all come. Invitations to Dudley House are rare enough to be coveted, you see, despite my reputation. Perhaps because of it.”