The Perfect Mistress (9 page)

"Oh, Mama… the most wonderful thing in the world." Gabrielle broke into a beaming, rapturous smile. "Tonight I fell in love."

Of all the possible explanations for Gabrielle's appalling state, "fell in love"

was absolutely the last thing Rosalind expected to hear. It took a moment to register, then she swayed and seized both Clementine's hand and Gunther's sleeve, to steady herself. For a moment she stared at Gabrielle, blinking, unable to believe her senses. Then she came to life, issuing distracted orders for sherry and a warm blanket and clamping an arm about Gabrielle to drag her into the drawing room.

"Love? In the streets? And looking like a drowned rat?" She pulled Gabrielle before the massive marble fireplace, motioning Gunther to bring her a chair. "This had better be good, my girl—this had better be good!"

"Oh, Mama, it is better than good… it is
wonderful
." Gabrielle let her eyes unfocus, as if she were staring into some cherished memory that required only inner vision. "He is so handsome and strong and noble. He rescued me from some foul and depraved beasts who tried to abduct me—tried to steal me right off the street."

Rosalind clutched her diamond-studded throat.

"Oh, but you needn't worry," Gabrielle quickly assured her. "He was there, and he sent the wretches packing. You see, I got caught in the rainstorm and was lost—when a carriage swooped down on me, out of nowhere." She warmed to her dramatic tale, embellishing as she went along.

"I screamed and fought as those hideous monsters tried to pull me inside—

and suddenly
he
appeared, dashing from his carriage to come to my rescue."

She clasped her hands over her heart, as if to constrain its wild response, and her mother pushed her down onto the chair Gunther had carried to the fire for her.

"Sherry, Clementine—quickly." Rosalind motioned her friend along while staring at her daughter… caught up unexpectedly in Gabrielle's story.

"He pulled me from their clutches and gave them a terrible thrashing,"

Gabrielle continued moments later, sipping the sherry and glancing at her mother from the corner of her eye to see how Rosalind was taking it. There was heightened color in her mother's cheeks, and she seemed to be genuinely engrossed. "Afterward, I was so frightened and distraught that I could scarcely speak my name. So he took me to a lovely restaurant, where he helped me to dry my clothes and settle my nerves. Once there, one thing led to another. We talked. And he held my hands and looked deep into my eyes…"

Her voice and attention trailed off, seemingly into mists of memory, and she smiled with an unmistakable feminine glow. It was so utterly unlike Gabrielle that Rosalind looked up, dumbfounded, at Clementine and Gunther. The pair stood a discreet distance away, wagging their heads, equally confused by the drastic change in her daughter.

"And he gave me his cloak and sent me home in his carriage…" Sighing, Gabrielle came to her senses and pushed to her feet. "If you don't mind… I am chilled and exhausted, and I simply cannot wait another minute to get out of this wretched dress." She floated toward the door, smiling. "Good night, Mama… Mrs. Bolt."

"Gabrielle!" Rosalind recovered in time to halt her just inside the doors.

She turned back to find her mother and the others hurrying after her. "Who is he? This man you've fallen in love with?"

"Oh, didn't I say? That is the best part." Gabrielle laughed with genuine delight, savoring her mother's expression as she announced: "He is an
earl
.

And he's so unbearably handsome and so fabulously wealthy—"

"An earl?" Rosalind fairly choked on her surprise. "Which earl?"

"Sandbourne," she said, savoring the way her mother's face went blank with shock. "The earl of Sandbourne. Oh—and I pray you won't mind—I've invited him to call tomorrow at five to take tea with us. He is so anxious to meet you and pay his respects. Oh, I can't wait for you to meet him. I just know you'll adore him too!"

She gave a giddy twirl of excitement for good measure and then floated up the stairs on a cloud of romantic euphoria, leaving her mother standing at the base of the stairs, mute with shock and wearing a look of deepening horror.

When Gabrielle disappeared from sight at the head of the stairs, Rosalind grabbed Clementine's arm to steady herself. The carriage, the cloak, the astonishing changes in her daughter's attitude and demeanor…

"Sandbourne—did you hear? Only this afternoon she despised love and passion and romance, and tonight, she is in love with
Sandbourne]"
Her knees buckled. Clementine and Gunther rushed her back into the drawing room, where one helped her into the chair Gabrielle had just vacated and the other rushed to the liquor cabinet to pour her a stout brandy. She downed the drink in one unladylike gulp, but not even its fierce burn could distract her from the distress of learning the identity of her daughter's new love.

"I cannot believe it. It's a calamity of the first order," she muttered numbly. "Of all the wealthy and titled men in England, she has to be rescued by one whose reputation would make a bawd-house bully blush for shame. Why, the man's a complete libertine—a pure debauchee—"

"Won't keep a proper mistress, like a decent an' godly gentleman would,"

Clementine said, posting herself at Rosalind's side and patting her hand sympathetically. "Goes for fancy houses an' his friends' lady wives, the bounder. Rampin' wild, I hear."

"And as a result has set more tongues wagging than the
wretched Prince of Wales. It's a wonder he hasn't been
called out by some cuckold of a husband…" Red crept into her pale cheeks as she stared fixedly at one spot, conjuring images of what lay ahead and seeing nothing but
trouble. She buried her face in her hands.

"I wanted her to fall in love with a generous, gallant, good-hearted gentleman… at least the first time. Someone who would introduce her slowly and carefully to the delights of love. Someone who would lavish her with gifts and affection and would be concerned for her pleasure as well as his." A moment later she raised a stricken face to them. "My little Gabrielle and the earl of Sandbourne."

Tears welled, and she fumbled about in her bodice for her handkerchief.

Gunther offered her the one from his breast pocket, and she dabbed her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was a constricted rasp.

"My baby is in love with a swine."

But the worst was yet to come. A moment later she remembered the rest of what Gabrielle had said and moaned in earnest.

"And tomorrow the swine is coming to tea."

An hour later, across the city, Gabrielle's newfound love was sitting by the fire in his private room at Le Ciel, nursing his second brandy in as many hours and staring into the hearth at the glowing coals. Time dragged by as he waited for his second rendezvous of the evening—the one for which he had initially engaged this room.

It had been his intention, earlier, to intercept Gladstone's female of the evening, to question her thoroughly, and then to report his findings to his political contact, here. But upon encountering the stubborn but potentially pleasurable Gabrielle, he had decided to make more extensive use of his reservation at Le Ciel. Why waste a perfectly splendid opportunity for a seduction, he thought, especially when that opportunity would yield the very evidence he needed?

If all had gone as planned, he would have plied her with champagne and mesmerizing pleasures and would have melted her defenses and coaxed her into implicating Gladstone… finishing just in time to be joined by a third party. But all hadn't gone as planned, and now he sat wondering how he had let things get so out of hand.

He had expected her to be a first-class tart; she showed not a single greedy or licentious tendency. He expected her to yield up a tawdry tale of the sexual fumbling of an aged reprobate who misused the license afforded reformers; but the only story she told was of being fed sweetmeats and hounded toward virtue by a self-righteous old cod. He had expected to seduce her; she had intrigued and inveigled him into something of a bargain instead.

He was left with the feeling that there was more to his "Gabrielle" than met the eye. And he didn't know whether to be annoyed or amused at himself for agreeing to such an improbable scheme.
Pretending to be her lover

. He closed his eyes, praying it didn't have anything to do with the fact that he had recently marked the end of his third decade. For it was often said that when a man turned thirty…

There was a soft knock at the door, and he called permission to enter. A man clad in a black evening cloak slipped inside and stood for a moment in the shadows by the door, surveying the room and its lone occupant.

Satisfied that conditions were as he expected them to be, he removed his hat and strolled forward.

"You're early, Tottenham," Pierce said, turning in his direction.

"I had an unexpectedly early finish to the evening," the man responded.

"What a coincidence." Pierce managed what passed for a laugh. "So did I."

That stopped Colonel Tottenham, Conservative MP, in his tracks. He studied Pierce's mood, then went to the table to deposit his hat, divest himself of his gloves, and pour himself a drink.

"Then, I take it, you didn't get the information we had hoped for."

"You take it correctly. The old man did go on one of his night prowls. I followed him to the Haymarket, where he picked up a young girl. It was storming bloody blazes, so he took the little piece straight back to his official residence and kept her there awhile. I caught her as she was leaving and questioned her.
Nothing
."

"Nothing?" The colonel twitched as if stung by the news. "Damnation.

We wait and we watch—the old chocker finally makes a move—" He hung one arm on the mantelpiece and looked Pierce over, noting his arrogant slouch and the air of heightened intensity about him. "Are you certain?"

"Believe me," Pierce said calmly, leveling a look on him, "I tried every sort of persuasion. She claims the old man tried to 'reform' her… fed her cocoa and biscuits in his kitchen and preached at her."

"Cocoa and his—? Damn and double damn!" Tottenham whirled away, tossing back his liquor and straining to control his impatience. "We know the old reprobate's weakness, his Achilles' heel, and we still can't catch him in the act." He fixed Pierce with a meaningful stare. "You know, of course, that
certain people
will be most unhappy with this development."

Pierce nodded. He knew that someone high in government—the anonymous someone who had sent Tottenham to recruit him for this task—

wanted to see the powerful and self-righteous William Gladstone drummed out of office, once and for all.

The old man was an iconoclast and an extreme eccentric at best, a raving madman and a traitor at worst… called everything from an embarrassment to the Empire to a communist, a lunatic, and a traitor. His predilection for prostitutes was an open secret in political circles. What would be a more fitting demise to his long and controversial career than being caught flat-footed in something as sordid and sensational as a bit of sex with one of the very prostitutes that he claimed to be trying to salvage? In the public mind, it would seem a short step from corrupting the women he claimed to be reforming to corrupting the government he claimed to be leading. By association, his programs and positions would come under grave suspicion as well.

Rumors, which had circulated for years about his libidinous activities, were not enough. The prime minister would have to be accused, confronted openly with the evidence of his debauchery. And to be believed, his accuser would have to be a man of consequence and credibility—both in politics and in the even worldlier pursuits of men.

"Something's got to be done about the man," Tottenham declared angrily.

"He's half senile—perched at death's door—and determined to take the upper-class down with him. He's thrown in with that whining Liberal rabble and the 'shrieking sisterhood' who blame all the nation's ills on the nobility and all the sin in the world on the lusts of upper-class men. They make us out to be ravening beasts and the tarts and doxies to all be 'downcast daughters' and 'sad soiled doves.' I tell you—suspending the Contagious Diseases Act is just the start. He's out to ruin the entire landed class!"

"No," Pierce said thoughtfully, "he's out to banish both privilege and sin.

For everyone but himself, that is. And that, my friend, is something I cannot allow. If he allows full repeal of the acts and tries to ban all prostitution, then he will succeed in making England over in his own image… We'll be a whole nation of hypocrites."

And if there was one thing Pierce St. James could not abide, it was a hypocrite.

People were people, he believed. And, despite popular upper-crust delusions to the contrary, all people, great and small, were basically alike underneath their linen and beneath their layers of manners and education.

They all had the very same needs and desires… a living, a bit of respect, and the comforts of the flesh to make life bearable. Thus, it followed that men like William Gladstone, who sat in judgment on the passions of the general run of mankind while plying their dirty little pleasures in secret, were the worst sort of hypocrites. And they damn well deserved to be called on it.