The Perfect Mistress (10 page)

In keeping with his forthright philosophy, Pierce had developed a reputation for common sense and unflinching candor in his public life. But that same openness, carried defiantly into his private life, had brought him a reputation as a libertine and horrified his rigidly respectable mother. To those determined to expose and bring down Gladstone, Pierce's noble rank, his thorough acquaintance with the world of illicit pleasures, and his open disdain for the hypocritical breast-beaters of the world marked him as the perfect man for the task of gathering evidence and pressing accusations.

"The evening may not have been a total waste, however," Pierce continued, studying his contact. "I've gotten the girl to agree to see Gladstone again and to report to me on all he does with her. It's possible he was just dallying with her the first time, lowering her guard, getting her to trust him."

"That is something at least. I knew we could count on you, Sandbourne."

Tottenham plunked his glass down on the mantelpiece and straightened.

"We have several 'spies' watching the old man—they'll keep you advised of his movements. I'll try to get information on his schedule in advance. But you never know when he'll get the
urge
and go on one of his 'night walks.' "

Pierce nodded. "I'll send word as soon as I have something. It shouldn't be long."

When his visitor was gone, Pierce sat a few moments longer, trying to decide whether to drop by his club or simply call an end to the disappointing evening and go home to bed. When Le Ciel's majordomo informed him that his carriage had returned and stood ready, he grabbed up his hat and gloves and headed for the stairs.

A light mist hung in the air, and he waved his coachman to keep his seat and reached for the door handle himself. But once on the step, he paused and looked up.

"Where did you take her, Jack?"

"Where she said, m'lord. Twenty-one Eaton Square," his driver declared.

"Back door or front?"

"Oh, front, m'lord. Definitely front."

Pierce's dampened mood slid abruptly into the sewer.

"Damn."

The storm of the previous night had so drenched the city that the streets fairly steamed the next afternoon. But the rain had also scoured much of the perpetual gray of soot and smoke from the skies over London, leaving in its wake a gloriously bright sun. People high and low spilled out into the streets, parks, and boulevards, basking in the unexpected warmth and the freshly washed feel of the city. Some strolled, some hawked wares from carts, some hurried along in carriages, cabs, or wagons… all taking care to avoid the brimming gutters and swelling ponds that the overburdened sewers left standing in many streets.

Splashing through the midst of it all, drawing glares from pedestrians scrambling to avoid the spray from its smart yellow wheels, was the earl of Sandbourne's glossy black carriage, with its gilded coat of arms emblazoned on the doors. Inside, Pierce St. James checked his watch then slipped it back into his vest pocket, venting annoyance with a forceful breath. He was going to be more than fashionably late, which meant he would have to make an entrance of some sort into God knew what sort of situation. He had to be mad as a hatter… walking into a strange house to face an unknown female and lay claim to the passions of her daughter.

Both the urgency and the promise of last night's encounter had faded in his mind. Just now, his reasons for honoring their ridiculous agreement seemed almost as incomprehensible to him as the allure of the young Gabrielle. In the harsh light of day, with the memory of her charms blurred by an intervening encounter with a bottle of brandy, the only details he remembered were her renouncement of romance and passion and her utter lack of response to his kiss. If it weren't for the fact that she might prove the key to tumbling Gladstone, he would have been tempted to forget the whole thing.

The carriage began to slow, and he heard Jack calling orders to his charges. When the coach came to a stop and he descended onto the pavement, he found himself standing on a carriage turn before a large Italianate house made of gray stone and trimmed with elegant iron fretwork.

He glanced up and down the row and judged this to be one of the grander residences on the square, then looked back to check the numbers above the door again.
Twenty-one
. He squared his shoulders and climbed the steps to the black lacquered doors.

He was admitted to the house by a Teutonic wonder of butler. The fellow took his name, his hat, gloves, and walking stick, then bowed from the waist and strode off toward a pair of drawing room doors… leaving him to stare at the entry hall and wonder if the houseman had actually clicked his heels or if he had just imagined it.

The grand hall was done in a classical arch motif and soft Mediterranean tones: glowing white and peach marble was handsomely accented by deep green serpentine marble floors, sills, and elegant statuary niche. A massive carved marble staircase seemed to float down from the upper levels in a broad, effortless spiral, and the walls were studded with Corinthian pilasters.

The floor was polished to a soft luster, and the hall table and benches were grandly carved rococo pieces that complemented the classical nature of the architecture.

This, Pierce thought, coming back to himself, was far from a bordello. He felt a curious sense of uneasiness at the fact that the place the girl resided appeared to be a private residence, and a handsome one, at that. A moment later, the houseman returned to lead him through a set of double doors into a large drawing room.

He paused as his name was announced, bracing for whoever or whatever awaited him. The walls were embellished with more pilasters, the windows were large and draped with layers of heavy velvet and sheerer silk, and the furnishings were upholstered in rich tapestries and brocades. The glow in the chamber came from the palette of colors—apricot, burnt umber, peach, and ivory—and from the huge, gilt-framed mirrors hanging on each wall.

Four women sat in the center of the room, before a massive marble hearth and mantel. They were dressed in the pinnacle of fashion; each in a figured silk dress made with a bustle and train, a dramatic hat, and daintily embroidered gloves. All but one. She was gowned in a stunning loden green silk that displayed her voluptuous figure, fair skin, and light coloring to near perfection. When she rose and turned to him with an outstretched hand, indicating that she was his hostess, surprise rendered him momentarily speechless.

Perceptions that had eluded his recall for the last several hours now rushed over him, mingling with present sense. The woman who greeted him was an older, fully ripened version of Gabrielle. She had the same light hair, the same huge blue eyes, and a similarly intriguing mouth. The resemblance was nothing short of remarkable; she obviously was the girl's mother. And since she was obviously expecting him, then perhaps Gabrielle's story…

"Lord Sandbourne," the woman said in throaty tones that set the air humming around him. "Welcome to my home."

"Madam. It was generous of you to see me on such short notice." He took her hand and gave it a graceful brush with his lips, realizing that he hadn't a clue to her name and struggling to find a rational approach to this unprecedented situation.

"Yes. It was short notice," she said, turning with her hand still on his, leading him toward the other women, who had kept their chairs and watched him approach with ill-disguised appraisal. "But then, my little Gabrielle can be quite persuasive… as you must know." He smiled politely;

"persuasive" was not quite the word he had in mind just now for the little schemer. "Come, let me introduce to you my dear friends." She halted with him before the chair of a petite, raven-haired, dark-eyed woman who not so long ago must have been a stunningly exotic beauty.

"Your lordship, may I present Mrs. Genevieve Francette, originally of Paris."

"Mrs. Francette," he murmured, taking the woman's languidly extended hand and doing a stiff obeisance over it. Her dark eyes were cool and thorough as they drifted over him, and he felt oddly like a schoolboy being given marks in deportment.

"And this is Mrs. Clementine Bolt," his hostess said, inserting her arm through his with the familiarity and grace of a woman used to both touching and maneuvering men.

He tried to recall what Gabrielle had said about her mother: she was both a devout romantic who loved champagne and wanted her daughter to fall gloriously in love, and a coolheaded pragmatist who insisted that her daughter's glorious love be titled, cultured, and suitably well heeled. The sensual flow of her movements, the arresting assurance of her manner, the beauty she wore so comfortably… he could believe she was a nobleman's prime weakness. The realization struck:

Gabrielle had told him the truth.

Coming back to his senses with a start, he found himself facing a buxom, red-haired woman whose pale complexion hinted at a lifelong battle with freckles.

"Mrs. Bolt," he breathed placing a delicate brush of the lips on the back of her hand. Her mischievous blue eyes and direct, admiring smile reminded him of a country lass in the throes of flirtation.

"And this is Mrs. Ariadne Baden-Powell," she said drawing him on to her third guest, a tall, willowy woman with chestnut brown hair, catlike green eyes, and a neck encased in a small fortune in pearls. She acknowledged him by raising one eyebrow and taking his hand in a firm handshake that left no opening for old-fashioned gallantry.

"Sandbourne," she said with a distinctly upper-crust clench to her jaw.

"Good to meet you at last, your lordship. I believe we share a friend in common."

"We do? And who might that be?" he asked.

"Gerald Graves, Lord Tavistock," she answered with what could only be termed a proprietary air.

"Gerald? Ah, the
old
Lord Tavistock," he said, wishing to recall it the moment he said it, then making it even worse. "Forgive me, but I thought he had died."

"He did. Last year." Mrs. Baden-Powell said archly, shifting on her seat and looking as if the fact still generated turbulent emotions in her. "In my arms."

"Well," he said, caught off guard by the visibility of her grief and his belated realization that she had been the old boy's mistress. What was the accepted form for addressing grieving mistresses? He settled for: "My…

condolences… upon the loss of Tavistock. He was a very fine gentleman."

"Indeed he was. Of the old school, of course. Noble, valiant-hearted, and generous to a fault," she responded, pinning him with a look that declared
him
to be suspect in each of those areas.

"Then perhaps you knew Addison Savoy, Lord Kenyon," his hostess declared, steering him toward a straight-backed parlor chair situated at the center of that circle of high femininity. "He was an especial friend of our Genevieve's. And Dickie Howard, Lord Bartlesford, was a dear companion and close confidante of our Clementine's."

He nodded to each woman, in turn, realizing that they were all mistresses of deceased noblemen. He managed to say something marginally polite about each of their losses, while glancing surreptitiously at his hostess and wondering to whom
she
belonged. Someone wealthy—he flicked an eye around their opulent setting—and spectacularly generous. He knew most of the titled and many of the wealthier men in England and had seen them out and about with their lights of love. But he couldn't recall ever setting eyes on Gabrielle's beautiful mother…

"As I said, it was good of you to join us for tea," she said, turning a smile on him that was carefully crafted to appear gracious without implying acceptance of him. "I must confess that I was terrified by Gabrielle's report of her misadventure. I owe you a great debt, your lordship."

He returned the smile a bit mechanically, wondering what the inventive little Gabrielle had told her. "It was the least a gentleman could do, madam."

"I think we might dispense with the 'madam,' Lord Sandbourne. I am generally addressed as Mrs. LeCoeur." Her smile warmed from icy to a moderate chill. "Or you may address me as Rosalind, if that would make you more comfortable. In view of the relationship you have come to seek with my daughter, I would not think either too familiar."

Rosalind
LeCoeur
. His jaw loosened before he could check his reaction.

The same Rosalind who was the duke of Carlisle's mistress? Since Pierce had been abroad in society, the fabled beauty had not been seen in the demimonde's traditional haunts: the races, the fashionable restaurants and risqué parties, and the theater. After the death of the duke's wife, more than ten years ago, the staid peer had all but retired from society, favoring the company of his long-term mistress over that of society's tyrannical doyens.

Suddenly he knew who Gabrielle was. She was the mysterious "love child" Rosalind was widely rumored to have produced with the duke.

Gabrielle was a duke's daughter… a famous secret… the tantalizing product of a grandly passionate and illicit union. His eyes widened. What
had
he gotten himself into?

"Tell me, your lordship," Rosalind said, watching his changing expressions with a discerning eye, "why is it you have never formed a significant alliance with a lady? It is my understanding that you have never been married or betrothed, and that those in the know would be hard pressed to name a single lady with whom you have been in love." Her summary left no doubt that she was acquainted with his freewheeling reputation.