Читать книгу Wayward Widow - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 9

1818

Mrs Emma Wren was commonly held to host the most dashing and daring parties in the ton and invitations were eagerly sought by that raffish group of fast matrons and bachelor rakes whose exploits were loudly denounced by the more staid elements of society.

On a hot night in June, Mrs Wren was holding a very special and select supper party to celebrate the forthcoming nuptials of one of her circle, that shocking womaniser Lord Andrew Brookes. The menu for this event had been hotly debated between Mrs Wren and her cook, who had almost resigned on the spot when appraised of the plans for the dessert. Eventually a compromise was reached when a French chef was hired especially for the occasion and the cook retired to his corner of the kitchen, muttering that no doubt Carème, the Prince Regent’s chef, would have been the best choice, being far more accustomed to this sort of immorality than he was.

The hour was late and the dining-room air was thick with candle smoke and wine fumes when the dessert was brought in. The guests, predominantly gentlemen, were lounging back in their chairs, well fed, pleasantly inebriated and entertained by the ladies of the demi-monde whom Mrs Wren had daringly placed amongst her acquaintance. One of these Cyprians was perched on the bridegroom’s knee, feeding him grapes from the silver dish in the centre of the table and whispering provocatively in his ear. His hand was already inside her bodice, fondling her absent-mindedly as his face flushed a deeper puce from drink and lust.

As the double doors were thrown open and the footmen staggered in, Mrs Wren clapped her hands for silence.

‘Ladies and gentlemen…’ her voice dipped provocatively ‘…pray welcome your dessert, a most special creation to mark this sad occasion…’

There were murmurs and laughter.

‘I am sure that Andrew will not be lost to us,’ Mrs Wren continued sweetly, glancing meaningfully at Brookes, who had an overflowing brandy glass in one hand and the lightskirt in the other. ‘It takes more than marriage to come between a man and his friends…Andrew, this is our gift to you.’

There was a smattering of applause. Mrs Wren drew back and gestured to the footmen to place their huge tray in the centre of the table. They stood back and the liveried butler whipped off the silver lid.

There was a silence. The wave of shock was almost tangible as it rippled around the table. Several of the rakes sat up straighter in their chairs, their mouths hanging open in amazement. Brookes went quite still, the girl sliding unnoticed from his knee.

On the silver tray in the middle of the table Lady Juliana Myfleet reposed in all her nude and provocative glory. Her auburn hair was fastened up in a dazzling diamond tiara. There was a jewelled garter about her right thigh and a thin silver chain about her neck. There was a grape in her navel, curlicues of cream placed strategically about her body, and slivers of grape, strawberry and melon strewn artfully across her nakedness. Her whole body was dusted with icing sugar and shone in the pale candlelight like a statue carved from ice, an untouchable snow maiden. But there was nothing remotely maidenly about the expression in her narrowed green eyes. She held out a silver spoon to Brookes with a little catlike smile.

‘You have first dip, darling…’

Brookes obliged with alacrity, scooping up some fruit and cream with such enthusiasm that his hand shook and he almost spilled it on the floor. The other men pressed close with catcalls and cheers.

Sir Jasper Colling, one of Lady Juliana’s most persistent admirers, pushed to the front. ‘I want to get my spoon into that pudding—’

He was pushed back again by Brookes. ‘You’ll have to wait your turn, old chap. This is my party and my pudding. Damned if I won’t be licking it up in a minute.’

The demi-mondaine looked extremely put out to be upstaged.

Lady Juliana turned her head lazily and her gaze fell on a gentleman she had not seen before at Emma’s soirées. He was tall and fair, and though he was of a slim build he had broad shoulders and a durable air. With his strong, bronzed face and the ruthless line to his jaw, he looked as though he would be a useful ally in any altercation. He was sitting back in his chair as though scorning the eager blades who circled the table, and his gaze was dark and unreadable in the shadowed room.

Juliana felt a curious sense of recognition. She smiled at him, her come-hither smile. ‘Come along, darling. Don’t be shy.’

The gentleman looked up. His eyes were a very dark greeny-blue and they appraised her with complete indifference. ‘I thank you, ma’am, but I have never liked dessert.’

Juliana was not accustomed to being rejected. She gave him back level stare for level stare. He looked close to her own age of twenty-nine, or perhaps a little older. There was a certain world-weary look in his eyes, as though he had seen all this and more many times before. A faint, cynical smile curved his lips as he held Juliana’s gaze.

A strange wave of feeling swept over Juliana. Just for a second she felt very young and very confused, as though the whole tawdry tableau was some dreadful mistake that she had stumbled into by accident. The predatory smiles, the grasping hands…For a moment she almost slid off the salver and ran, shaken by the cool challenge in the man’s eyes. Her smile faltered, yet she could not tear her gaze away from him.

Then he turned away to gesture to a footman to fill his wineglass and the strange feeling passed. Juliana turned one shimmering shoulder and bent a smile on the youngest and most excited of the gentleman there.

‘Simon, my pet, why do you not lick the cream off…just there…?’

Juliana arched her body briefly to the scavenging hands, then stood up, scattering the fruit on the tiled floor, and beckoned to a maid to pass her her wrap. There were groans of disappointment from the men, but already the more enterprising of the Cyprians and the more daring of the ladies were moving in to take up where Juliana had left off, spooning the fruit and cream from the salver and feeding the gentlemen. Juliana, casting a quick look over her shoulder, saw that the evening was already set fair to descend into one of Emma’s famous orgies.

A footman, scarlet to the ears, held the dining room door open for Juliana to exit. She swept through in her bare feet, spilling the last remaining bits of food across the polished tiles of the marble entrance hall. The cream was sticking to her wrap and the icing sugar was starting to itch. She hoped that Emma had remembered to tell the maid to draw a bath for her.

The dining-room door closed behind her and Juliana could hear the roar of conversation swell to a new, excited level as everyone started to pick over her latest, outrageous exploit. A little smile curved her lips. That would give them something to talk about in the clubs! No matter how tasteful the wedding on the morrow, Brookes’s marriage would be remembered for the disgraceful exploits the night before. Once again, society matrons would exclaim over the shocking behaviour of Lady Juliana Myfleet, the Marquis of Tallant’s daughter, who had once been one of their own and had fallen from grace so spectacularly.

‘This way, my lady.’ The maid was gesturing her towards the curved staircase. She was very young and she looked plain. Juliana reflected that Emma always chose plain maids, being unable to stand any competition. The girl ushered Juliana through a doorway on the landing and into the room that Juliana had used earlier when she changed out of her clothes. Another door led into a smaller room, where another maid was pouring steaming water into the bathtub. She looked up as Juliana came in and her perspiring face flushed a deeper red. She emptied her jug of water, dropped Juliana a flustered curtsy and fled, as though just being in the same room as the ton’s most wicked widow might put her in danger.

Juliana turned her bewitching smile on the first girl, slipped off her wrap, bent to remove the garter from her leg and stepped into the water.

‘Thank you. You may leave me now.’

The maid gave her a tight-lipped smile in return and took the soiled robe in her hand. She too dropped a curtsy, disapproving and not over-awed, and left the room. Juliana laughed.

The icing sugar was turning sticky in the water and Juliana reached for the long, wooden-handled brush to give her skin a good scrub. She preferred to do it for herself. The thought of some ham-fisted maid attacking her tender flesh made her wince. The remains of the cream were floating on the top of the water like some unpleasant scum and there was a sliver of apple swirling around in the brew. Juliana grimaced. The after-effects of her outrageous behaviour were proving a deal less pleasant than the trick itself. At this rate she would require a second bath to wash away the residue of the first.

She lay back and closed her eyes, recapturing the moment when the footmen had whipped the lid off the silver salver and exposed her in all her glory. To cause such an uproar had been such fun. The women had looked furious and the men had looked like little boys in a sweetshop. Juliana smiled with satisfaction. It was so very pleasant to be able to arouse such emotions. Admiration, desire…and contempt.

She sat up abruptly, remembering the expression on the face of the fair-haired stranger.

‘I thank you, ma’am, but I have never liked dessert.’

Infernal impudence! How dared he be so disdainful? It had only been a joke. And what was such a puritan doing at one of Emma’s debauched suppers anyway? Perhaps he had been looking for a church meeting and had taken the wrong turning.

For a moment Juliana remembered the look in the man’s blue eyes and felt disturbed all over again. She had been so certain that she knew him, with a bone deep recognition that she had never felt before. Yet it seemed that she was wrong.

She stood up, slopping water over the side of the bath on to the floor, and reached for the towel. The diamond tiara snagged on the material as she drew it about her shoulders and with a quick impatient movement Juliana pulled it from her hair and cast it on the dressing table. Suddenly she was anxious to be gone. She padded across the bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the carpet. Her clothes were all laid out on the bed. She need only ring the bell to summon the disapproving little maid to help her dress, but she did not want to wait. She had left Hattie, her own maid, at home in Portman Square. Hattie invariably disapproved too, to the point where Juliana’s friends enquired why she did not find herself a new maid rather than tolerate Hattie’s censure. Juliana never answered. The truth was that she rather liked having a strict maid. It made up in part for the mother she could not remember.

On impulse Juliana started to dress herself, getting into a tangle as she tried to fasten her silk stockings to her garters, casting her stays aside and slipping into her chemise. The evening dress she had chosen was deceptively simple, a wrap of aquamarine gauze. Even so, she found it surprisingly difficult to fasten it without help. The diaphanous material was intended to cling and drape seductively and it was almost transparent. Juliana frowned at her reflection. The dress was gaping inelegantly like that of a blowsy, drunken trollop and looked not so much seductive as ridiculous. Clearly there was more to this business of dressing oneself than met the eye. She would not try it again. She could not bear to look unkempt.

She sat down at the dressing table and studied her reflection. She had not the first idea of what to do with her hair, which, now that the tiara was removed, tumbled down her back in auburn profusion. To have her hair loose about her face softened the breathtaking angles of her cheekbones and made her look younger. The sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose only added to the youthful impression. Those freckles had withstood years of forceful scrubbing and all her attempts at removal with Dr Jinks’s Lemon Ointment. Juliana leaned closer. There was a hint of vulnerability in her eyes that she did not wish to acknowledge. It made her feel strange, just as she had when the unknown man had looked at her.

The door opened and Emma Wren rustled in. Juliana could immediately tell that Emma was a little the worse for drink. Her colour was high, the rouge on her cheeks smeared, and her hairpiece slightly askew.

‘Juliana, my dear!’ Emma was high with excitement. ‘You were utterly magnificent! Why, the gentlemen can talk of little else! They are all waiting for you, my dear. Are you ready to go down?’

Juliana turned back to the mirror. She was aware of making excuses. ‘Not quite. I need some help with my gown and my hair.’

Emma tutted. ‘You should have called my maid. Dessie will fix it in a trice. Although…’ she stood back and considered Juliana’s appearance ‘…you do look quite charmingly rumpled and wanton like that, my dear. I am sure the gentlemen will appreciate it. Tumbled curls are quite the thing, you know, and make you look so young and innocent.’ She gave a peal of laughter. ‘You will quite sweep them away!’

Not for the first time, Juliana reflected that Emma was wasted as the wife of a junior government minister and would have been most successful as the madam of a bawdy house. There was, in fact, very little difference between Mrs Wren’s elegantly appointed town house and a Covent Garden bordello. Or a rookery in a less salubrious part of Town, for that matter. Juliana turned her shoulder. She might connive at some of Emma’s more outrageous games for her own amusement, but she had no intention of playing to someone else’s rules. The trick played on Brookes had alleviated her boredom for at least an hour, but now she did not propose to go downstairs and act the harlot.

‘Sir Jasper Colling is asking for you,’ Emma said meaningfully, putting her painted face close to Juliana’s, so that Juliana could smell the stale wine on her breath. ‘And Simon Armitage. He is a sweet boy, Ju—and so very young and eager. Think what fun it might be to initiate him…’

Juliana felt a wave of repulsion. There was something sweet about Simon Armitage’s untried adoration and it would be a gross betrayal to take that adoration and use it for her own gratification. She was hardly so steeped in dissipation, whatever the gossips might say. She was determined to refuse Emma’s blandishments, but before she disappointed her hostess’s expectations and drew her ire, there was something that she wanted to know. She tried to make her voice sound casual.

‘That gentleman, Emma—the one who looks like a rake but behaves like a priest—who is he?’

Emma’s expression cleared. ‘Oh, I see! You prefer someone new! There is nothing so intriguing as a stranger, is there, my dear?’ She frowned. ‘A few hours ago I should have said that you could not have chosen better, but now I am not so sure…’ She flung herself down on the end of the bed. ‘That is Martin Davencourt. One of the Somersetshire Davencourts, you know. No title, but rich as Croesus and connected to half the families in the land. He is back in London following the death of his father last year.’

‘Davencourt,’ Juliana repeated. The name rang a very faint bell, but the memory escaped her.

Emma’s voice had taken on a petulant note. ‘Yes, Martin Davencourt. I was told that he was amusing—indeed, he should be amusing, for he has knocked about the capitals of Europe for several years.’ Juliana, watching in the mirror, saw her pull a face. ‘I invited him because I thought he would be fun, but he seems the most prosy bore. Perhaps it is because he wants to be a Member of Parliament now and seems to take himself so seriously. Some MPs do, you know. Or perhaps it is having those seven tiresome half-brothers and half-sisters to care for. Whatever the case, he declines to enter into the spirit of things tonight, but perhaps you could change his mind for him.’

‘Martin Davencourt…’ Juliana frowned. ‘The name is familiar, but I do not believe we have met. I am sure I would have remembered him. I could almost swear that we had met, yet I cannot think when…’

Emma arched a knowing eyebrow. ‘I believe his diplomatic work has kept him out of the country for a good while. Still, even if you do not really know him, you can always pretend. Come downstairs and persuade him to renew old acquaintance, Ju.’

Juliana hesitated, then shook her head. She stood up, scooping her cloak from the bed where it rested beside Mrs Wren’s elaborate coiffure.

‘I do not think so, Emma. Mr Davencourt is proof against my charms. And I fear I must decline your offer of entertainment tonight. I have the headache and think I will have an early night.’

Emma sprang to her feet, looking affronted.

‘But, Juliana, the gentlemen are waiting. They are all expecting you! I promised them—’

‘What?’ Juliana stared. There had been a note of panic in Emma Wren’s voice and with a sudden insight she realised what had happened. She had been promised as part of the entertainment—not simply offered on a tray, as it were, but to be thrown to the guests afterwards at the orgy, along with the Haymarket ware that Emma had imported for the occasion. The thought made her furious. Emma knew perfectly well that Juliana might indulge in risqué tricks to entertain herself and her friends, but to promise her services to the guests was another matter.

‘I am not going downstairs to play the Cyprian for Simon Armitage, Jasper Colling or indeed anyone else,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘I am tired and I wish to go home.’

Mrs Wren’s painted mouth thinned to an obstinate line. There was a knowledge in her eyes that was as old as the hills and it made Juliana, for all her experience, feel very naïve.

‘I fail to see why titillating their appetites by appearing naked on a tray is more acceptable than spending a little time with my gentleman—’

‘It is not merely my time you wish me to give,’ Juliana said stiffly. She could feel her colour mounting as she stared at Emma’s contemptuous face. She knew there was an element of truth in her erstwhile friend’s assertion. She had deliberately set out to shock and provoke and now she wanted to retreat from the consequences of her actions. She took a breath.

‘I agreed to play the trick on Brookes because it was fun, a joke to tease and shock your guests! Anything else is out of the question.’

Emma made a noise of disgust. ‘At least the lightskirts are honest in what they do!’

Juliana flushed. ‘They are doing their job. As for me, I have no taste for masculine company tonight.’

‘You seldom do.’ Emma’s eyes had narrowed to a glare. ‘You think that I have not observed that? How you flirt and flaunt and tease, yet never deliver on what you promise? I do believe, my dear—’ she thrust her face in Juliana’s, reaching up, for she did not have Juliana’s height ‘—that your reputation for wickedness is nothing but a sham!’

Juliana laughed. It was best to ignore Emma when she was in her cups, for if she answered in kind their friendship would be lost. Juliana needed that friendship.

‘And I believe that you are a little castaway, Emma. Perhaps you should return to your guests. I will see you tomorrow at the wedding.’

‘I’ll see you in hell!’ Emma shrieked, picking the silver-backed hairbrush from the dressing table and throwing it inaccurately at Juliana’s departing back. ‘You’re nothing but a milk-and-water miss who hasn’t the stomach for the games you play. Run away, little girl! I’ll never forgive you for spoiling my party.’

‘You will forgive me soon enough when you want to take money off me at whist,’ Juliana said coldly.

She hurried down the curving staircase. Behind her she could hear the crash of objects bouncing off the walls as Emma devastated the bedroom. She had always known that Emma had a bad temper, had seen it turned against luckless servants and shopkeepers, but it had never been directed at her before. For a second, the image of her father rose before her. She could well imagine his disapproving expression, his cold, cutting words: ‘You count this woman your friend, Juliana? An ill-bred fishwife who has neither taste nor quality? Upon my word, how did you come to this?’

Juliana shivered violently. It was no secret that the Marquis of Tallant disapproved heartily of his only daughter—no secret that he doubted she was actually his child and deplored the fact that she had apparently followed in her mother’s immoral footsteps. Whilst he sat in cold judgement in his house at Ashby Tallant, Juliana ran riot in town, playing for high stakes and keeping low company. Since her brother Joss’s marriage two years before, she had inherited the mantle of family black sheep and had played up to it with a vengeance.

The entrance hall was in darkness but for one tall stand of candles by the front door. From the dining room came the sounds of masculine laughter, the tinkle of music and roars of encouragement. Evidently one of the Cyprians—or perhaps one of Emma’s guests—was performing the dance of the seven veils. Juliana reflected that the party was progressing well without either its hostess or herself to add to the entertainment.

She espied a footman standing like a sentinel by one of the pillars and beckoned him over. She wondered if it was one of the men who had carried her into the dining room earlier. Certainly he was avoiding her eyes, as though he had not quite recovered from gazing at other parts of her anatomy.

‘Summon my carriage, if you please,’ Juliana said imperiously. It would do no harm to show some authority.

‘Certainly, my lady.’ The man shot away like a scalded cat and Juliana turned towards the door. Her coachman knew better than to keep her waiting. In a few minutes she would be free of this house and an evening turned sour. All the fun that she had derived from the trick on Brookes had evaporated with Emma’s tantrum. Juliana sighed. She should have known better, known that her friend’s licentiousness went far beyond the playing of a simple joke, known that there would have been another side to the evening.

She had reached the steps up to the main entrance and was looking around for the butler to open the door for her when a man stepped from the candlelit shadows.

‘Running away, Lady Juliana? Are you not intending to finish what you started?’

The deep voice made Juliana jump. She had not seen the figure until the last minute and his sudden appearance had startled her. He was dressed for the outdoors and was drawing on his gloves, and now he gave her a glimmer of a smile that for some strange reason set her pulse awry. Juliana recognised Martin Davencourt and felt an unfamiliar lack of self-assurance. He was watching her steadily and there was something in his gaze that made her feel vulnerable. Something about this man made her sophistication feel parchment thin. Juliana would have said that her brother Joss was the only one who knew her well, was the only one who was allowed close to her, yet she had the strangest feeling that Martin Davencourt’s searching blue gaze saw far more than she wanted him to see. She raised her chin, instinctively on the defensive.

‘I am going home.’ She allowed her gaze to scan him from head to foot. ‘It seems that the entertainment is not to your taste either, Mr Davencourt.’

‘Indeed, it is not.’ There was a note of grim amusement in Martin Davencourt’s voice. ‘I am cousin to Eustacia Havard, Lady Juliana—the lady who is marrying Lord Andrew tomorrow. I had not realised that this was his…’ he paused, finishing ironically ‘…his bachelor swansong, I suppose it could be called.’

Juliana smiled sweetly. Cold disapproval was something that she could easily deal with. She had encountered it often enough.

‘I see that you do not approve of our little entertainments, Mr Davencourt,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should try Almack’s, or the débutante balls in future. I hear that they even serve lemonade there. That might be more to your taste if this is too stimulating for you.’

‘Perhaps I shall take your advice,’ Martin Davencourt said slowly. He was watching her thoughtfully and now he gestured towards the closed door of the dining room. ‘I am surprised to see you leave so prematurely, Lady Juliana. The party is only just starting, and after your performance earlier I would have thought that you had plenty to contribute to the rest of the evening.’

Juliana laughed. No matter how dull Martin Davencourt’s tastes, his wit was still sharp. She was enjoying crossing swords with such a man.

‘I apologise for confounding your expectations, Mr Davencourt,’ she said. ‘Emma’s entertainments are not to my taste tonight.’ She narrowed her gaze on him thoughtfully. ‘Though if you were inclined to join me I might be persuaded to change my mind.’

Martin Davencourt gave her a smile—and a look from those sleepy dark blue eyes that made her feel hot and very bothered. He spoke gently.

‘Are you always this persistent, Lady Juliana? I would have thought that one refusal would be enough for you.’

Juliana raised a haughty brow. ‘I am not accustomed to rejection.’

‘Ah. Well, it happens to us all at some point.’ Martin Davencourt gave her a rueful smile. ‘Accept it.’

Juliana felt a hot rush of annoyance, mainly with herself for inviting a rebuff a second time. It had been her pride that had spoken—she had wanted Martin Davencourt to regret his previous indifference towards her. She had wanted him to want her, and then she could have played her usual game, leading him on a little but not too much, his admiration balm to her soul. She had played the game so often, first encouraging a suitor and then dropping him before his attentions became too pressing. She was an expert at the art. Except that Martin Davencourt did not want to play her games…

Juliana ran her fingers over the wooden edge of the doorframe and looked at him thoughtfully from under her lashes. He gave her back look for look, direct and clear. Juliana thought she could distinguish a flicker of cool amusement in that blue gaze.

‘I had heard that you were a man of experience, Mr Davencourt,’ she said coldly, ‘yet you behave more like an Evangelical. You are sadly out of place in this house.’

She saw him frown and felt a skip of excitement, like a naughty child provoking the adults. She imagined that it might be exciting to provoke Martin Davencourt and to see how deep that calm self-control actually went. Or perhaps not. There was something about him that suggested it might actually be rather dangerous to push him too far.

He smiled at her gently. ‘I realise that I am in the wrong place,’ he said, ‘but perhaps you are, too. Take my advice, Lady Juliana, and cut loose of all this. Everyone has to grow up some time. Even a lady rakehell, such as you profess to be.’

Juliana laughed. ‘Is that what you think me? That I am a rake?’

‘The role is not necessarily confined to the male of the species. Is it not the reputation that you cultivate?’

Juliana shrugged. ‘Reputations may be exaggerated.’

Martin Davencourt inclined his head. ‘True. They may also be encouraged.’

A crash from upstairs made both of them jump. Emma Wren’s voice rose to a crescendo. The door to the servants’ quarters thudded open and a couple of frightened-looking maids scurried up the stairs.

‘Time to leave,’ Juliana said. ‘I fear that Emma is cross with me tonight. A refusal to join in the game so often offends, does it not?’ She smiled. ‘But I do not need to tell you that, do I, Mr Davencourt? You strike me as a man quite happy to cause offence by refusing to conform.’

‘I play by my own rules,’ Martin Davencourt said. ‘One cannot allow someone else to dictate the game.’ He threw her an appraising glance. ‘In that sense I do believe we are two of a kind, Lady Juliana.’

Juliana laughed. ‘If that is so, then I think it must be the only thing we have in common, sir.’

Martin Davencourt tilted his head enquiringly. ‘Are you sure of that?’

Juliana raised her brows. ‘How could it be otherwise? You are staid and orthodox and ever so slightly shocked at the company you find yourself in.’

Martin laughed. ‘You have divined a great deal about me in a short acquaintance.’

Juliana shrugged. ‘I can read a man at thirty paces.’

‘I see. And yourself? You were about to make some observation about your own character, I infer.’

‘Oh, well, I am unorthodox and rebellious and—’

‘Wild?’ There was an ironic inflection in Martin Davencourt’s voice, as if such qualities were scarcely admirable. Juliana shrugged carelessly.

‘We are chalk and cheese, Mr Davencourt. No, on second thoughts, not. Cheese can be quite delicious. Wine and water? You remind me of flat champagne. So much potential wasted.’

She heard Martin take a careful breath. She could not see him clearly but she could hear the repressed amusement in his voice.

‘Lady Juliana, are you always so rude to chance acquaintances?’

‘Invariably,’ Juliana said. ‘But this is nothing to how I can be, I assure you. I am being nice to you.’

‘I believe you.’ Martin’s tone changed. ‘You should think twice before you indulge in these games, Lady Juliana. One day you will take on more than you can deal with.’

There was a pause.

‘I do not think so,’ Juliana said coldly. ‘I can take care of myself.’

She saw a smile touch the corner of Martin Davencourt’s mouth. His gaze swept over her slowly, thoughtfully, from head to toe. It lingered on the tumbled auburn curls that framed her face and on the freckles across the bridge of her nose. It considered the curve of her waist and the dainty slippers that peeped from under the hem of her gown. He did not make any move towards her and yet Juliana felt strangely vulnerable. A deep, disturbing sense of awareness swept over her, leaving her breathless. She wrapped the cloak closer about her, her fingers clenching at her neck in an attempt to conceal the flimsy aquamarine dress. Ridiculous, when Martin Davencourt and many others had seen her stark naked only an hour before, and yet she suddenly had an intense desire to shroud herself in as many layers as possible.

‘Are you sure?’ Martin Davencourt spoke softly and his searching blue gaze held hers relentlessly. ‘Are you sure you can take care of yourself?’

Juliana cleared her throat, her fingers tightening unconsciously on the cloak. ‘Of course I am sure! I live alone and do as I please, and have been doing so since I was three and twenty.’

Martin Davencourt straightened up. He was smiling. ‘That sounds like a mantra, Lady Juliana. The sort of thing that if you repeat it often enough you start to believe it. So if it is true that you are a…hardened lady rakehell, it is strange that on occasion you should look like a frightened schoolgirl.’

Juliana felt a shiver go through her. She did not like his observation. It accorded too closely with what she had seen earlier in the mirror. ‘It is a very useful accomplishment, I assure you,’ she said flippantly. ‘The gentlemen find it fascinating that I am able to play the innocent. Many a Cyprian has asked me how I manage it. I believe they charge a great deal for false virtue.’

She saw the expression in Martin’s eyes harden. ‘You are very cool, I will say that for you, Lady Juliana. Nevertheless, I am offering a word of advice. If you proposition a gentleman, be sure that you are prepared to deliver on your promise. Otherwise it brands you a cheat.’

Once again Juliana felt a rush of annoyance. ‘Two pieces of advice in one evening,’ she said, in honeyed tones. ‘You should charge for your opinions, Mr Davencourt. You might make a fortune. Then again…’ she pulled a face ‘…perhaps not. You are not very interesting.’

Martin Davencourt laughed. ‘You used to be such a sweet girl, Lady Juliana. Whatever happened to you?’

Juliana paused, looking at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Are you trying to claim a previous acquaintance with me, Mr Davencourt?’

She saw the flash of Martin Davencourt’s teeth in the darkness as he laughed. ‘I am not trying to claim anything, Lady Juliana. I suppose you do not remember our previous meeting. Let me remind you. We met at Ashby Tallant, by the pool under the willows on those long hot summer days. You were fourteen years old and a very sweet and unspoilt child. Whatever happened to change that?’

Juliana turned away. ‘I expect I grew up, Mr Davencourt. I would like to say that I remember you, too, but I do not.’ She raised a brow. ‘I wonder why that would be?’

Martin Davencourt held her gaze for a long moment and Juliana found herself fidgeting under his scrutiny, her cheeks growing hot. She was about to burst into speech, any speech, to ease the discomfort of that moment, when she heard the sound of the clatter of hooves on the cobbles as the coach was brought round. Seldom had she felt so relieved to escape a situation.

‘Oh! My carriage, I think.’

Martin smiled. ‘How timely. Enabling you to run away yet again, Lady Juliana.’ He held the door open for her courteously. ‘Goodnight.’

He followed her out through the door and with a negligent wave of the hand he strolled away down the street.

Juliana paused, staring after him into the darkness, her foot poised on the carriage step. She was used to people trying to scrape an acquaintance—they were usually gentlemen—but Martin Davencourt hardly struck her as the type. He had made it plain that he did not admire her. Yet if they had really met as children it might explain that peculiar sense of recognition that possessed her whenever he was nearby.

The touch of raindrops on her face recalled her to the present and she climbed up into the coach, leaning forward to draw the curtains against the dark. As she did so a movement across the other side of the square caught her eye. A man was standing in the shadows and now he stepped forward into the pool of light thrown by the lamps. Juliana stared. Her heart started to race. He was staring directly at her and the tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders was oddly familiar. It looked like her late, unlamented husband, Clive Massingham. Except that Massingham was dead, knifed in a brawl in an Italian jail.

The coach started with a jolt and the curtain fell back into place and Juliana relaxed back against the seat. It had been a trick of the light, that was all. That, and her memory playing tricks. There was no cause for alarm.

As for Martin Davencourt, it would be better to stop thinking about him and his stern disapproval. Except that Juliana had the strangest feeling that forgetting Martin Davencourt would not be easy at all.

Martin Davencourt breathed in the fresh night air with a sense of relief. The atmosphere in Emma Wren’s house had been stifling in more ways than one. He squared his shoulders, shaking off the niggling sense of irritation that had pursued him throughout the evening. It had been his own fault for thinking that Mrs Wren’s supposedly sophisticated supper would be a place for stimulating discussion. Clearly he had been out of London for too long. Either that, or he was getting too old.

The cheap lasciviousness of the whole evening had disgusted him. Martin shook his head. God knew, he was no plaster saint himself, but the pointless immorality of Emma Wren’s guests had been more depressing than anything else. Most depressing of all was that Andrew Brookes was marrying his cousin on the morrow. Martin did not know Eustacia Havard well—he had been out of the country for several years and had an affectionate but distant relationship with his aunt and her family—but nevertheless he did not like to think of his cousin marrying such a loose fish as Brookes. He had disliked Brookes on sight and he did not rate Eustacia’s prospects of marital bliss as any better than those of the Prince Regent.

He turned into Portman Square. The night was dark with an edge of rain on the breeze. It smelled fresh, like the country. A sudden, fierce ache to visit Davencourt possessed him. Once the Season was over, perhaps…It would be impossible to leave Town just now for, in addition to his work, his younger half-sisters were enjoying the novelty of their visit and would complain if he brought it to a premature end. It would also be unfair to their older siblings, especially Clara, whose début had already been delayed for a year because of their father’s death. She had caused quite a stir in society and might well make a dazzling match in her first season if only she could be persuaded to stay awake long enough to offer one of her suitors some encouragement.

If he could see her settled, and find a husband for Kitty as well…But Kitty was far more of an intractable problem.

Martin frowned. Kitty had shown no interest in any of the entertainments that London had to offer, other than the opportunity to lose endless sums of money at the gambling tables. Martin was aware that a deep unhappiness was driving his half-sister’s behaviour, but she would not speak to him about it. It was hardly surprising, for he was a good ten years older than she and they did not yet know each other well. And in the meantime, Kitty was gambling recklessly and people were talking.

Thinking of gamblers made Martin’s thoughts turn to Lady Juliana Myfleet. Juliana, trailing two marriages and a string of lovers behind her like a gaudy comet. He had heard much of her exploits—who had not—but it had been almost sixteen years since they had met. No wonder she had forgotten.

In the intervening time he had met plenty of women like Juliana Myfleet; bored wives whose beauty had hardened into dissatisfaction or widows who had the jaded shell of the society sophisticate. Martin pulled a face. The only difference between Juliana Myfleet and a whole host of other women was that she frequently went too far. He thought she did it deliberately, to test and provoke, a spoiled child grown into a spoiled woman.

Except that when their eyes had met for the first time that night, all he had seen was a vulnerable girl acting a part that was too grown-up for her, like a child in adult’s clothing. The impression had hit him with the force of a blow to the stomach, contrasting as it did with the provocative shamelessness of her pose on the silver salver. Whilst all the others had been burning with lascivious excitement he had been possessed by an astonishing urge to protect and cherish her, whilst at the same time feeling a sick disappointment to see what she had become. No doubt youthful infatuations always ended in disappointment.

Perhaps he had been mistaken in thinking her vulnerable. Martin’s steps quickened. Later she had shown nothing but the brittle boredom he would have expected, plus a malice that betrayed a certain unhappiness. At any rate, it was none of his business. She was none of his business. And he had too many other things to worry about.

He turned into Laverstock Gardens and went up the steps of his town house. All the lights were blazing, despite the fact that it was just past two. Martin recognised this as a bad sign.

Liddington, the butler, opened the door with an expression so blank that Martin’s heart sank even further.

‘That bad, Liddington?’ he murmured, as he divested himself of his coat.

‘Yes, sir.’ The butler was matter of fact. ‘Mrs Lane is awaiting you in the library. I did try to suggest that she should leave the matter until the morning, but she was most insistent—’

‘Mr Davencourt!’ The library door opened and Mrs Lane swept out in a swirl of draperies. She was a large woman with greying hair and a perpetually agonised expression. When Martin had first met her he had wondered if she was plagued by some medical complaint that kept her constantly in pain. These days he realised that it was apparently the effort of chaperoning his sisters that caused her misery.

‘Mr Davencourt, I simply must speak with you! That girl is quite hopeless, and does nothing that I tell her! You must speak to her. She is fit for Bedlam.’

‘I assume you refer to Miss Clara, Mrs Lane?’ Martin asked, catching the matron’s arm and steering her back into the library and away from the servants’ stifled amusement. ‘I know that she can be a trifle indolent—’

‘Indolent! The girl is a minx.’ Mrs Lane pulled her arm away huffily. ‘She pretends to fall asleep so that she may ignore her suitors! It is no wonder that she has yet to attract an offer from a gentleman. You must speak with her, Mr Davencourt.’

‘I shall do so, of course,’ Martin said. The last time he had tried to talk to Clara about her behaviour he had felt as though he was wrestling with a very slippery fish. She had looked innocent and puzzled and told him that she tried very hard to show an interest but she found the Season dreadfully fatiguing. There had been a stubborn look in her eyes and Martin had been uncomfortably aware that his half-sister was trying to hoodwink him, but he had not even scratched the surface of the reasons for her behaviour.

‘As for Miss Kitty…’ Mrs Lane swelled wrathfully. ‘That girl is getting into bad company, sir. How is she to catch a husband when she spends all her time at play? Gambling away her allowance, I have no doubt, though the chit will tell me nothing.’

‘I shall speak with Kitty as well,’ Martin said. He felt in desperate need of a drink. ‘May I offer you a glass of ratafia, Mrs Lane?’

‘No, thank you, Mr Davencourt,’ Mrs Lane said, as though Martin had suggested something unspeakably vulgar. ‘I never take spirits after eleven. It upsets my constitution.’ She billowed to her feet. ‘I merely wish to add that if Miss Davencourt and Miss Clara do not reform—and quickly!—I shall be taking my services elsewhere. There are plenty of young ladies who would be glad to have my chaperonage and would not cause me one moment’s anxiety. I am much in demand, you know!’

Martin felt panic and irritation stirring in equal measure. The thought of losing Mrs Lane, humourless as she was, was terrifying. He would never find another reputable lady willing to chaperon Kitty and Clara about town, not in the middle of the Season when the girls had a reputation for being so difficult. His sister Araminta had had to work very hard to persuade Mrs Lane in the first place. The chaperon had implied that a house with seven children and lacking the steadying hand of a mistress must surely be a hotbed of wickedness, and now his half-sisters were proving precisely that. Martin ran his hand through his hair.

‘Please do not leave us, Mrs Lane. You have done such a splendid job so far.’ He could hear the insincerity in his own voice.

‘I will think about it,’ the chaperon said graciously. ‘Of course, if you think that I have done such a splendid job, Mr Davencourt, you might consider reflecting that fact in my fee…’

Martin could feel the screws of blackmail turning. Only the previous week he had been obliged to increase the wages he paid to his younger brother’s tutor to prevent him from handing in his notice. Then the governess had threatened to leave after his younger sisters filled her bed with stewed apple. It only required the nursemaid to resign and he would have a full house.

He held the door open for Mrs Lane. ‘I shall see what I can do, madam. In the meantime, be assured that I will speak to both Kitty and Clara—’

‘Martin!’ A plaintive voice floated down from the staircase. Daisy was sitting halfway up the stair, swinging her feet through the delicate iron tracery of the banisters. She was clutching her teddy bear and looked tiny and dishevelled. Daisy was five years old and a late child, the result of Mr and Mrs Davencourt’s last, ill-fated attempt at reconciliation. Martin hurried up the stairs to scoop her up into his arms, and felt the fierce heat of her tears against his shirt.

‘I had a bad dream, Martin,’ his youngest sister hiccupped. ‘I dreamed that you went away and left us for ever and ever—’

Martin smoothed his hand over her hair. ‘Hush, sweetheart. I am here now and I promise never to go away—’

The nursemaid came hurrying along the landing, a candle clutched in her hand, a wrap thrown hastily over the nightdress. Her eyes were full of sleep and anxiety. She held her arms out.

‘Now then, Miss Elizabeth, what’s going on here? Come back to bed.’

Daisy clung to Martin with the tenacity of a limpet, winding her fat little arms about his neck. ‘I want Martin to put me to bed and tell me a story!’

Martin thought longingly of the huge glass of brandy as yet unpoured in the library and the pristine newspaper he had not even unfolded. But the nursemaid’s look was pleading.

‘If you would be so good, sir…Miss Elizabeth has been having so many nightmares lately and I am sure she will sleep better if you tuck her up.’

Down in the hall Mrs Lane was still watching him with a look of cupidity in her sharp grey eyes. Her expression reminded Martin of a hunting cat closing in on the kill. He felt anger and helplessness in equal measure. He turned away deliberately, pressing a kiss on Daisy’s tumbled fair curls.

‘Come along then, sweetheart. I will tell you the story about the Princess and the Pea.’

Daisy snuggled up to him. Her warmth comforted him. When the terrible news of their parents’ death had reached him the previous year, he had been stunned and appalled. The late Mr and Mrs Davencourt lived for most of the time in a state of armed neutrality towards each other, barely spending any time together. It had been ironic in the extreme that they had died together in a fire at their London house. Philip Davencourt had been a staunch Tory who had deplored his son’s Whiggish tendencies, but for all their political disagreements, father and son had had a healthy respect for each other and Martin knew that his father had been proud of him when he had been appointed to Castlereagh’s delegation at the Congress of Vienna. The only thing that his father had disapproved of was Martin’s failure to marry.

Perhaps his father had had a point, Martin thought ruefully, as he carried Daisy back to the nursery. A man who had seven younger half-brothers and half-sisters to care for needed help and a far more permanent relationship than the transient affairs that he had been accustomed to in the past. Not only that, but in future he would need a wife to act as political hostess as well.

He held Daisy close. His sister Araminta, the only other child of his father’s first marriage, had argued that the younger girls should go to live with her when their parents had died. Martin had been tempted, but in the end he had decided against it. He might only be thirty-one years old, he might have no wife to support him, but that was as nothing compared to the powerful sympathy he felt towards his younger siblings. They had endured enough misery over the death of their parents and he would not be responsible for separating them now. They stayed with him and he did the best he could for them. But he needed a wife.

Juliana lay in her huge canopied bed and watched the play of shadows across the wall. The house was completely silent. Even in the daytime there were no children to spoil the peace and nothing to disrupt the almost sepulchral silence. Juliana lived entirely alone, with no companion to give her countenance and to quell the tongues of the gossips. She had chosen it that way, declaring that to live with some tedious poor relation would make her run mad.

Juliana rolled over on to her side and pressed her cheek against the cool pillow. She felt hot with the effort of repressing her tears and angry because she did not understand why she wanted to cry, except that it had something to do with Martin Davencourt. She thumped her pillow. How maudlin could a person be? She had everything she could possibly want, so there was no reason to be sad.

Remembering a game she had played when she was a child, Juliana tried to enumerate the reasons why she should be happy.

One. She had money—enough money to buy anything she wanted and to gamble the rest away. Her father, whilst deploring her behaviour, was quick enough to spare her financial embarrassment, so she need never worry that she would go without.

Two. Tomorrow Andrew Brookes was marrying Eustacia Havard and she was invited to the wedding. That gave her a purpose, something to do, a reason to get out of bed. She would not be bored tomorrow. She would not even be lonely, for she would be surrounded by people. Juliana felt slightly better at the thought. Her misery receded slightly. This was a good game.

Three. She was beautiful and she could have any man that she wanted. Juliana frowned. Instead of making her feel better, the thought engendered a slight chill. Firstly she had not met any man that she genuinely wanted. Armitage, Brookes, Colling…they were at her beck and call, as were countless others. But the truth was that she did not want to call them. Since the end of her disastrous marriage to Clive Massingham, she had been wary of love. She would not let it make a fool of her again.

Then there was Martin Davencourt. His stern face was before her still. Severe, upright, steady. She was not sure why she had wanted him. She did not even like him. He was everything that she usually dismissed in a man. Perhaps that was why she had decided to try to attract him. She had wanted to see if he was really as sternly honourable as he seemed. She had wanted to see if she could corrupt virtue.

Juliana rolled over on to her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. She hoped that that was the reason. God forbid that she should suddenly and inexplicably be attracted to an honest man. That would ruin her bad reputation once and for all.

‘We met at Ashby Tallant, by the pool under the willows on those long hot summer days. You were fourteen years old and a very sweet and unspoilt child…’

Martin Davencourt’s words had struck a vague chord of memory. Generally Juliana tried not to remember her childhood because it had not been a particularly happy time. Now, however, she deliberately tried to recall that summer. There had been a pool under the willows, where she would sometimes run away and hide from her governess when the days glowed with sunlight and the schoolroom was intolerably stuffy. She had lain in the long grass and watched the sky through the shifting branches of the trees, and listened to the splash of the ducks on the still water. It had been her secret place, but one day—one summer when she had been about fourteen or so—there had been someone else there; a boy, all straw-coloured hair and gangling limbs, reading some dry tome of philosophy…

Juliana sat bolt upright. Martin Davencourt. Of course. He always seemed to have his nose in a book, or to be fiddling with some sort of mechanical invention. He had had no interest in her girlish chatter about the Season and balls and parties and the eligible gentlemen that she would meet when she made her debut…

They had made some childish pact that summer. Juliana wrinkled up her nose, trying to remember. She had been fretting that she would never meet a man to marry and Martin had looked up from trying to fix the arm of a catapult or some such tiresome invention, and had said that he would marry her himself if they were both still unwed at thirty. She had laughed at him and his chivalrous impulses.

Juliana had laughed then and she laughed now. It had been very sweet of Martin, but of course she had gone to London and had fallen head over heels in love with Edwin Myfleet and had married him instead. She had not seen Martin Davencourt from that day to this.

Juliana pulled her knees up to her chest and sat there, curled against her pillows. It had been a sunlit summer even though Martin, with his bumbling ways and obsession with his books, had been a bit of a bore. She smiled. Some things did not change. He had been dull then and he was dreary now. His looks had improved considerably, but that was the best thing that she could say for him.

Juliana paused. She knew that that was not strictly true. Somehow—and Juliana was not quite sure how it had happened—Martin Davencourt had managed to get under her skin like a sharp thorn. His observations were acute, his gaze far too perceptive. There was something decidedly disturbing about him, and about the treacherous sense of familiarity she felt in his company.

Juliana realised that Martin would be at Andrew Brookes’s wedding on the following day and her heart missed a beat with a mixture of anticipation and something approaching shame. She felt vaguely embarrassed about confronting him again after their encounter that evening. She did not understand why. Her exploits at Emma’s party had only been in jest and it was not for Martin Davencourt to approve or disapprove.

Juliana lay down, and then sat up in bed again. She knew she would not sleep, for her mind was too active. But if she did not sleep, she would look like a hag at the wedding and no one would admire her. That was inconceivable. She reached over to light her candle, then trod barefoot across to the wooden chest in the corner of the room. The box of pills was at the back of the top drawer, beneath her silk stockings. She took two laudanum tablets quickly, washing them down with a draught of water from the jug on the nightstand. That was better. She could almost feel the tiredness creeping up on her already. Now she would sleep and when she woke it would be the morning and there would be things to do and people to see, and everything would be well. Within five minutes she was asleep.