A Compromised Lady (9 page)

B y the end of the evening, Thea felt as though she had been boiled up in a copper with the sheets. She was exhausted, limp, by the time Almeria summoned the carriage to return to Grosvenor Square. But she had survived. She had renewed her acquaintance with a number of women who had been brought out in the same season as herself and had been accepted back into their number.

Her public acceptance by Diana Fox-Heaton ensured that. Diana had accompanied her back to the drawing room. Several women she had known as a girl had come up to her, inviting her to various parties. She thought about Diana as the maid readied her for bed. They had not been close friends years ago, but they had liked each other. And Diana had gone out of her way to help tonight. She had warned her that rumours were circulating. Rumours that suggested Miss Winslow’s long absence from society might have very little to do with mourning a lost love…

She shivered. Diana was married to Sir Francis—one of the very few people who could have any inkling of the truth. He had been a close friend of Nigel Lallerton’s, that was how she had come to know Diana. They had been part of the same circle. What would he say to his wife’s renewed friendship with her?

She slipped into bed and blew out the lamp. Despite her exhaustion, sleep mocked her. Diana had been quite as outspoken as Richard on the subject of Lord Dunhaven…Francis says he simply wants a brood mare—and that no father of sense will give his consent to such a marriage. You know, there was all sorts of gossip when his wife died—but nothing could be done. No servant would ever speak out in a matter like that!

Thea shivered. Aberfield, however, was willing to promote the match.

A hard-edged face slid into focus. Dark eyes that usually spoke of cool control, self-discipline—eyes that had positively blazed with some violent emotion this evening. Heat flickered, tingling inside her

—Richard must really loathe Dunhaven for some reason, she told herself. She didn’t think she had ever seen him so angry—except once when he was a boy, and his mother had just visited…She sighed. She hadn’t much liked Richard’s mother herself and she wondered what the new Lady Blakehurst was like…Richard seemed to like her, even if Lady Arnsworth didn’t.

Richard walked back to Grosvenor Square in company with Braybrook. They had ended the evening in the card room, playing piquet for penny points with an added shilling for a game, and a pound a rubber. Richard had emerged ahead by a couple of pounds and half a bottle of brandy.

‘The sad thing is,’ said Richard, jingling the coins in his pocket, ‘that if I played for larger stakes, I’d lose resoundingly!’

‘Naturally,’ said Braybrook. ‘My father always said much the same; you only win when you can afford to lose. Pity he didn’t take his own advice speculating. Here we are—Arnsworth House.’

‘So it is,’ said Richard, inspecting the familiar portico.

A faint scraping sound brought both of them swinging around sharply. A small dark shape detached itself from the steps leading down to the area and resolved itself into a boy.

‘What the devil are you doing there?’ demanded Richard.

The lad hung back. ‘Would one of you be Mr Richard Blakehurst?’

‘What’s that to you, lad?’ asked Braybrook suspiciously.

Richard shook his head. ‘It’s all right, Julian,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m Mr Blakehurst.’

‘Note for you then, guv,’ said the boy, approaching. ‘From a lidy,’ and pushed the note into Richard’s hand. He was gone in a flash, racing off along the pavement and disappearing around the corner into Upper Grosvenor Street, before either of them could stop him.

Richard stared after him with raised brows. ‘Idiot boy,’ he said. ‘I’d have given him sixpence.

Wonder who’s writing me love notes?’

Braybrook raised his brows. ‘Love notes, Ricky? You?’

Richard grinned, breaking the seal and opening the note. ‘Do you think you and Max are the only men in London ever to—good God!’

He stared in disgust. Who the hell had penned this filth?

Braybrook twitched the note out of his hand and read aloud, ‘How many times will you tup the gilded whore tonight?’ In an expressionless voice, he said, ‘Charming, Ricky. Absolutely charming.’

He handed it back.

Crumpling the note in his fist, Richard shoved it deep in the pocket of his coat. ‘Quite.’

The burning question, of course, was just who was the gilded whore? He hoped, he very much hoped, that he didn’t know the answer.

‘Sure you won’t seek lodgings, old man?’ asked Braybrook.

Richard shook his head curtly and limped up the steps, refusing to acknowledge the wisdom of the suggestion.

Thea frowned at the note from Lady Chasewater, inviting her to drive her in the park the following day. Relieved that it wasn’t for that afternoon, Thea managed to persuade Lady Arnsworth that a quiet hour in the back parlour would be more beneficial than more shopping.

Reluctantly, her ladyship consented. ‘Very well, dear. If you are quite sure it is necessary. You do look pale. And of course you must send a note accepting Laetitia’s invitation. She is very influential.

And there must be no question of you not being able to attend the Montacute ball this evening, so I suppose…’

Thea assured her that with a little quiet she would be perfectly ready to attend the ball and Lady Arnsworth departed.

Telling Myles that she was not at home to anyone, Thea asked for a pot of tea to be brought to her in the parlour.

Ten minutes later she was ensconced on a sofa with her writing box and sipping her tea. Peace descended in the familiar room. Faint sounds from the street and the mews reached her, but they seemed oddly detached, as though the house hung suspended beyond the noise.

Hastily she wrote a note to Lady Chasewater, assuring her that she would be delighted to drive with her the following day. Then she summoned a footman to take the note. That done, she took out another sheet of paper to write to Aunt Maria.

For a few moments her pen scratched away. Then it stilled as her concentration wavered and she gazed about the familiar room. Little had changed since last she had been there. It was not a public room, and the furniture was rather old-fashioned and crowded. Not a crocodile leg or sphinx in sight, as though the room had been forgotten when Lady Arnsworth redecorated.

Of all the rooms in Arnsworth House, this was the one she had always known best when she visited as a child. Here Richard had spent his days after the riding accident that broke his left leg.

Here, she had been introduced to him at the age of five, as a suitable chess opponent. She smiled, remembering. The twelve-year-old Richard had barely choked off the exclamation of disgust. He had, however, taught her to play chess.

She laid the pen down.

What was he really like now? She had known him as a boy, but did she know the man? Perhaps she did. No doubt he still loved dogs. And horses. The fuss there had been when he insisted on riding again after his accident! His mother and Lady Arnsworth would have kept him wrapped in cotton wool on the sofa if he hadn’t been so stubborn about it. She couldn’t believe that would have changed. Richard could make a mule look cooperative.

Which probably meant he was in no danger of being lured into a matrimonial trap with her.

And he was still kind. Protective. The thought stole through her, insensibly warming. He had been protective last night. No, that had not changed. So perhaps she did still know him. A little. Far better than he could know her.

The child who had known Richard was gone beyond recall, as if a knife had slashed the thread of her life leaving it in two utterly separate pieces. Short useless pieces that could never be woven back into the pattern.

No one knew her now. Sometimes she wished she didn’t know herself. There was no point wondering about Richard Blakehurst. He was no concern of hers. She thrust the thoughts away and went back to her letter. That was how she had learnt to manage. One thing at a time; concentrate on the task at hand.

The only sound within the parlour was the scratching of Thea’s pen as she concentrated on manufacturing neat, ladylike sentences for Aunt Mary.

A light tap at the door disturbed her.

‘Yes?’

The door opened and Myles came in. ‘A note for you, miss.’

‘Oh. Thank you, Myles.’

She took the note with a smile.

‘Will that be all, miss?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll ring if I need to send a reply.’

As the door closed behind the butler, Thea looked at the note. A single sheet folded once and sealed with a plain seal. It was directed to Miss Winslow, Arnsworth House, in clumsy, ill-formed capitals. Thea frowned, broke the seal and opened the note.

Time stood still and her veins congealed as the single word slashed her hard-won peace to shreds: SLUT.

Who? Who?

How long she sat staring at the note, she had no idea, but a deep voice wrenched her out of the nightmare with a shock like icy water.

‘What the deuce have you got here?’

The writing box hit the floor, accompanied by the crash of splintering glass and china as the inkpot and teacup broke. Thea found herself on her feet, every sense at full stretch, one fist clenched.

Ready to fight.

Richard’s shocked face steadied her. ‘It’s only me, Thea.’ Then, ‘Damn! Stay still!’

He strode towards her, his expression fiercely intent.

Despite herself, she flinched, stepping back.

‘Damn it, woman! I said to stay still!’ he roared.

She froze in sheer outrage, and he was beside her, his booted feet crunching on the ruins of the inkpot and teacup.

And gasped as she was lifted bodily with ease and dumped back on the sofa with a marked lack of ceremony.

‘And stay there,’ he growled, ‘while I send for someone to clear this up. Those slippers won’t protect you from a shard of glass!’

She looked down. Broken glass and china sat in the lake of spilled ink and tea soaking into the Turkey carpet. And with them the anonymous note.

Sanity flooded back in some measure, but the violence of her reaction still shook her. ‘I…I didn’t hear you come in.’ She leaned forward and reached for the paper.

His mouth quirked. ‘Obviously.’ And before she could stop him, he had bent down for the note.

‘Here you—’ it was open, face up—‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, staring at the note.

Then he looked up and Thea’s stomach turned over as she met his eyes. Fury, sheer protective fury blazed there.

Oh, God! If Richard tried to find out…

For a moment the shocked silence held, then Richard spoke, scarcely recognising his own voice, soft, deadly. ‘Who the devil sent you this?’ He forced himself to consider the matter logically, controlling the choking rage. Last night’s note had disgusted him, but this! His fingers shook in the effort not to shred the note.

He turned it over. Like his, the seal had been plain, the writing consisted of clumsy and ill-formed capitals…and directed very clearly to Thea. This piece of…of filth had been intended for her. As last night’s note had been directed straight to him. His fist clenched, crushing the note. His own note he might have ignored, but if he ever found out who had sent this—he’d serve them the same way. Slowly.

‘Who sent it?’ he repeated.

‘I don’t know.’ There was not the least tremor in her voice now and her eyes were steady and clear. ‘Myles brought it in. It’s nothing to fuss about, Richard. Just foolish spite.’ She essayed a faint laugh. ‘No doubt the rumours of my fortune inspired it. I’d burn it, but the fire isn’t lit.’

Undoubtedly the fire was where it belonged. If he had not been watching her for a moment before he spoke and startled her, he might have believed her not to be upset. But he had seen the pallor of her face as she stared at the note, seen her hands trembling. She had been so lost in whatever emotion had gripped her that she had not even heard him enter the room. And now she was trying to hide it from him.

Surely a piece of casual spite would not strike to the heart like that? She had looked devastated.

Had she heard the whispers the previous night? Should he mention his own note? Common sense said he should. But…

‘Do you receive many letters like that?’

‘No! Give it back, Richard. I’ll burn it later.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you touching it again.’ The thought of a piece of vileness like this coming anywhere near her offended him. He put the crumpled note in his pocket.

Flushing, she met his gaze. ‘I thought you were out.’

As an attempt to change the subject it was pitiful. ‘I came home,’ he said. ‘Thea, that note—’

‘Please—no,’ she interrupted. ‘I know what you would say—that I ought to find out who sent it, but really, Richard, it doesn’t matter. Just burn it for me. It’s just someone…someone who doesn’t like me, I suppose. Someone…very unhappy.’

‘How do you work that out?’ he growled.

Her eyes dropped. ‘Oh, well…can you imagine a happy person sending a note like that?’

He couldn’t, of course. There were times when feminine intuition was absolutely irrefutable. Only he could have sworn she meant something far more specific. Something personal. That she knew who had sent it, or at least suspected.

‘Leave it, Richard,’ she urged. ‘There’s no point making a fuss. It was horrid and I admit gave me quite a shock, but that’s all.’ She smiled at him, eyes steady. ‘What brought you in here?’

Another attempt to change the subject.

He didn’t like it. Not one little bit. Every instinct told him that Thea was deeply shaken, that her increasing calm was a façade, that if she knew of the note he had received she would be even more upset. For now he would accept her reticence. It seemed more important to distract her from the vile note. And definitely more important to distract her from wondering what he might do about it.

‘What brought me in here?’ He smiled. ‘Myles told me you were here and he swears that Almeria is out.’ The mess of ink and tea caught his eye and he reached out to ring the bell. ‘So I thought it would be safe to have a game of chess without giving her any encouragement.’