More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (78 page)

Her mother squeezed her hand. “We have heard,” she said, “about Pinewood's turning out not to belong to you after all. I am so sorry, Viola. You know I was opposed to your accepting it from—f-from Bamber when you were doing so well at your governess's post, but I am sorry he deceived you so.”

Despite the bitter quarrel they had had before she left for Pinewood, Viola had had enough experience of life
not to pass too severe a judgment on her mother. She had been got with child—with her, Viola—while she was governess to the Earl of Bamber's son. The earl had whisked her off to London and kept her there as his mistress for ten years before she fell headlong in love with Clarence Wilding and married him. The change in Viola's life was total and severe. There was no more contact with her father, whom she had adored. There was the impatience and contempt of her stepfather instead. Sometimes, when he was drunk and her mother was not present, he called her “the bastard.” She had had to ask Hannah the meaning of the word.

It was not until almost thirteen years later, when she recognized her father driving in the park one afternoon while she was walking and had impulsively hailed him, that she had discovered the full truth. Her father had not abandoned her. He had tried to see her. He had written to her and sent her presents. He had sent money for her support. He had wanted to send her to a good boarding school before arranging a respectable marriage for her. Everything had been returned to him.

And so he had discovered the truth about his daughter and the life she was living and the reason for it. He had arranged a meeting with Daniel Kirby and paid off all the remaining debts of the man who had taken his mistress and his daughter from him. And then he had given Viola the precious gift of a new life. He had given her Pinewood.

Her mother had been incensed. At first Viola had been much inclined to blame her. What right had she to keep Viola from her own father? But she had learned enough about life by that time to know that the human heart was a complex organ and frequently led one in the
wrong direction without any really cruel intent. Also she recognized that her mother was reacting without full knowledge of all the facts. Her mother believed that Viola had respectable employment as a governess.

She had forgiven her mother long ago.

“He did not deceive me, Mama,” she said. “But how did you know about Pinewood?”

“Mr. Kirby told us,” her mother said.

Just the sound of his name made Viola's stomach lurch.

“Do you remember him?” her mother asked. “But of course you must. He comes to the inn to take coffee quite frequently, does he not, Claire? He is still very amiable. I have gone down once or twice to converse with him. He commiserated with us over your loss. Naturally, we were mystified. That was when he told us about the Duke of Tresham's brother winning the property from the earl and going down to Somersetshire to claim it. What is the brother's name? I cannot recall.”

“Lord Ferdinand Dudley,” Viola said.

Daniel Kirby had heard, then. But
of course
he would have heard. He made it his business to know everything. This explained why he suddenly discovered a new debt. He knew she would be returning to London. He knew he could exercise power over her again.

“What is Lord Ferdinand like, Viola?” Claire asked.

Handsome. Full of laughter. Gregarious, charming, impossibly attractive. Daring and dashing. Kind. Honorable. Innocent—strangely innocent
.

“I did not know him long enough to form any lasting impression,” she said.

Maria came back then, carrying a tray, which she set down on a table close to the love seat.

“Well,” their mother said as she poured the tea, “you are home now, Viola. That part of your life is in the past and best forgotten. Perhaps Mr. Kirby will help you again. He knows a great many influential people. And of course your former employers may be willing to give you a good recommendation even though you left them rather abruptly.”

Viola shook her head when Maria offered the plate of cakes. She felt quite nauseated. For that, of course, was just what was going to happen. Daniel Kirby would come here soon and the two of them would talk and come to some arrangement for the resumption of her career. They would set about spinning a suitable yarn for her family so they would never know the truth.

Perhaps, Viola thought as she sipped her tea and listened to Maria's prattle about the latest news from Ben, she should tell them herself—now, before her life became a web of lies and deceit again.

But she simply could not do it. All their lives would be ruined. Uncle Wesley had been enormously kind to them over the years. He had never remarried after his young wife died giving birth to their stillborn child only one year into their marriage. His sister and her family had become his own. He had supported them cheerfully and without complaint. Viola could not see him destroyed. And there were Claire and Maria and Ben, who must be allowed a future of pleasant prospects. Her mother's health was not strong. She would not be able to support the burden.

No, she could not do it.

T WAS FERDINAND'S SECOND DAY OF RIDING
from inn to inn on a search that he fully expected to be futile. He would waste a week or so in this way until finally he would either see her—in the park or at the theater—or hear of her from his acquaintances. Lilian Talbot was back, the story would go, as beautiful, as alluring, as expensive as ever. Lord So-and-so had been the fortunate one to secure her services first, Lord Such-and-such second …

If he was wise, Ferdinand kept telling himself, he would return to Selby and get him to tear up the papers transferring ownership of Pinewood, and he would go back there himself—and stay there for the rest of his life.

He never had been renowned for his wisdom.

He had arrived at the White Horse Inn at just the wrong time, he thought as he rode into the cobbled yard. A stagecoach was preparing for departure. There were people, horses, and baggage everywhere, and a great deal of noise and commotion. But one stablehand recognized him as a gentleman and hurried toward him to ask if he could take his horse.

“Perhaps,” Ferdinand said, leaning down from his saddle. “But I am not sure I have the right place. I am looking for an innkeeper by the name of Thornhill.”

“He is over there, sir,” the lad said, pointing to the
densest throng of people close to the coach. “He is busy, but I'll call him if you like.”

“No.” Ferdinand dismounted and handed the boy a coin. “I'll go inside and wait.”

The innkeeper was large in both height and girth. He was exchanging pleasantries with the stagecoach driver. His name was Thornhill. Could the search possibly end this easily? Ferdinand wondered.

He ducked through the doorway and found himself in a dark, beamed porch. A slender, pretty young girl with a tray of used dishes in her hands curtsied to him and would have proceeded on her way if he had not spoken.

“I am looking for Miss Viola Thornhill,” he said.

She looked far more directly at him then. “Viola?” she said. “She is in the coffee room, sir. Shall I call her?”

“No,” he said. He was feeling almost dizzy. She was
here
? “Which room is that?”

She pointed and stood to watch him as he proceeded toward it.

There must still be some time left before the stagecoach was due to depart, he thought as he stood in the doorway. It was still half full. But he saw Viola immediately, seated at the far side of the room, facing toward him. Opposite her sat a man, to whom she was talking.

Ferdinand stood watching them, torn between feelings of relief, anger, and uncertainty. He never had decided how he would proceed if he found her. He could stride toward that table now, if he chose, place the papers beside her saucer, make his bow, and leave without saying a word. He could then get on with his life, his conscience appeased.

But two things happened before he could make up his mind to do it.

The man turned his head sideways to look out through the window. Ferdinand could not see him full-face, but he could see enough to realize that he knew him. Not personally, but he supposed there were not many men of his class who would not recognize Daniel Kirby. He was a gentleman, though not a member of the
ton
. He hung about places like Tattersall's and Jackson's and various racetracks—places frequented primarily by men. A small, round-faced, jovial fellow, he was nevertheless well known for the weasel he was. He was a moneylender, a blackmailer, and other unsavory things. Wherever there was money to be made by shady means, Daniel Kirby was there.

And Viola Thornhill was in conversation with him.

The other thing that happened was that she looked beyond the shoulder of her companion and her gaze locked with Ferdinand's for a moment. But although she stopped talking for that moment, her expression did not change. There was no look of surprise, anger, embarrassment—or anything else. Then she returned her attention to Kirby and continued with what she was saying as if nothing had happened.

She did not want Kirby to know he was there, Ferdinand concluded. Only seconds must have passed, he realized, when he turned to find the young maid still standing where she was, holding her tray.

“Does she live here?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” the girl said.

“And her mother too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is her name?”

“My mother's?” She frowned.

“
Your
mother's?” He looked more intently at her. “Is Miss Thornhill your sister?”

“My half-sister, sir,” she said. “I am Claire Wilding.”

He had not even known that she had a sister. The girl was small and slender and blond. He made an impulsive decision.

“Will you ask Mrs. Wilding if she will receive me?” he asked. He drew out one of his visiting cards from his coat pocket.

She looked at it as he set it on the tray.

“Yes, my lord.” She curtsied and blushed. “I'll ask her.”

She spoke with a refined accent, he noticed, just as Viola did. Clearly she could also read.

L
IFE COULD GET NO
bleaker, Viola thought as Daniel Kirby took his leave. When her uncle had come upstairs earlier to announce his arrival, he had been smiling. Her mother had smiled too and insisted on coming down to the coffee room with Viola to pay her respects to him.

The conversation had turned to business once the two of them had been alone together, of course. The terms were the same as they had been before. Viola had not given in without protest, but she had known it was hopeless. When she had mentioned the receipt Mr. Kirby had signed and given to her father, he had regarded her kindly but blankly.

“Now, what receipt would that be?” he had asked her. “I recollect no such thing.”

“No, of course. You would not,” she had replied coldly.

He was to find her rooms. He was to put about the
word that she was back in town. He was to engage clients for her. He granted her a week's holiday to spend with her family while he made all the arrangements.

“After all,” he had said, “your family might find it strange if I were to find you a governess's post too soon. And we would not wish to upset your family, would we?”

But if the interview with Daniel Kirby was not trouble enough for one morning, there was the other ghastly thing that had happened while she was sitting talking to him. She had looked up, conscious that someone was standing in the doorway, and for a moment had completely lost the trend of what she was saying.

In the split second before she had pulled herself together, all she had thought of was that he had
found
her, that he had come for her, that she could rush into his arms, and he would hold her there safe forever. Then she
had
pulled herself together and looked away. When she had glanced up again a few seconds later, he had gone.

She had felt enormous relief.

She had also hit the depths of despair.

She got up from the empty table. She had promised to help out in the office with some of the paperwork Claire so abhorred. But first, she thought, she must go to her room to spend some time alone.

How had he found her?

Why had he come?

Why had he gone away again without a word?

Would he come back?

Hannah was in her room, hanging up her newly laundered and ironed traveling dress.

“Your mother asked that you go to her as soon as
that man
left,” she said.

Viola sighed. “Did she say what she wanted, Hannah?”

“No,” her maid said, though Viola had the feeling that she knew very well.

She sighed again. Her mother probably wanted to share her delight at Mr. Kirby's promise to help her daughter find employment, Viola thought as she opened the sitting room door and stepped inside.

Lord Ferdinand Dudley was sitting by the fireplace.