Devil's Bargain (14 page)

Lynette followed the baroness’s movements, slipping down onto her knees beside her. “Who?”

“Horace!” She spat out the name like a curse. The baron. Her husband. “He would not take on an impoverished brat, no matter that I was the boy’s only living relative.” The baroness looked up, her eyes haunted.

“How long were you imprisoned?” Lynette didn’t want to ask, but she had to know.

“Thirteen months. One month for every year he was old.” The baroness looked away. “By the time I
left my room, Adrian had already solved his own problem.” She released a short, bitter laugh. “He was better off here than with me. So I let him be.”

Lynette stared at the floor. She couldn’t think. Certainly, she had heard stories of husbands who were cruel. Indeed, she had spoken at length with many wives who sported bruises of one kind or another. But this…It went beyond cruelty. It was horrific. And the damage to both the baroness and the viscount lingered long after the evil Horace was dead.

Shifting slightly, she turned, not toward the baroness but toward a movement in the hallway beyond. There she caught the steady regard of Dunwort, silently watching the pair of them. She wanted to call out, to ask his advice, but he did not remain. He merely shook his head sadly and turned away, disappearing as all good servants should.

Sad and alone, Lynette turned back to the baroness. The woman was still sobbing, tears coming out in great, wracking spasms of grief. Part of her wanted to hand the woman the brandy. Part of her wanted to share the bottle as they both sought oblivion in its depths. But that would help neither of them. So she set it aside, then held the baroness in her arms until the woman’s sobs eased.

Finally, when she thought the baroness would hear her, Lynette worked past the lump in her throat to speak. “That is quite a tale.”

In her arms, the baroness stiffened, but before she could react, Lynette rushed ahead, knowing the woman misunderstood.

“I know it is true. There is no doubt of the pain it has caused you. But what I wish to know…” She didn’t finish, but instead lifted the woman’s face to
look at her. “What I want to know is, why it is your fault.”

The baroness merely stared at her, still slightly dazed.

Lynette continued. “Horace was an evil man, and I am glad he is dead. I know,” she said with a shrug, “shocking words. Especially from a minister’s daughter, but I mean it. Your husband was evil.”

She waited a moment, watching the baroness’s eyes until she knew the woman was focused on her.

“Horace was evil, but he is dead now.” She took a deep breath. “Why do you still need to be punished?”

The smile was slow, but it came as a bitter quirk of the older woman’s lips, a self-mocking grimace that showed more clearly than words exactly what the baroness believed.

“Because I am now living on his charity. Do you not see it, Lynette? I failed to house my only nephew when he was but thirteen. And now that I am a poor widow, an old woman with nothing, he has brought me into his home. I have nothing that he has not provided. The food in my mouth. The clothes on my back.”

Her words rambled on, but Lynette could tell the baroness was not thinking about what she was saying. Indeed, she probably was not even completely aware that she spoke. Her mind was focused more on the brandy as she scanned the floor for it. Lynette saw her gaze slip about the room, glancing behind furniture, shifting to look behind the two of them, trying to unobtrusively find a bottle she could reach.

But she didn’t see any. That was because Lynette had tucked the brandy away behind her skirts, which were even now damp from the spilled liquor. In fact,
behind them was likely an unholy mess of shattered glass and mixed alcohol. But Lynette did not care. Instead, she leaned forward, touching the baroness as she spoke.

“This should be a time for healing. For both of you.” She paused, trying to capture the baroness’s attention. “Does he know what happened?”

Again the bitter laughter. “Of course he knows. I told him. I begged his forgiveness. He does not want healing. He wants revenge.”

The baroness now abandoned all subtlety. She shifted onto all fours, ready to search on her knees for her brandy, but Lynette grabbed her hands, stopping her. “What revenge? He has housed you. Fed you. There is no punishment in that.”

The older woman looked up, her eyes intent with a manic gleam. “The punishment is you. Don’t you see that? You and Audra and Suzanne and all the other girls he has brought here. He uses them to show me exactly how weak and pitiful I am. He does not think I know, but I do. I know.” She looked down. “But I deserve it.”

“It was not your fault!” Lynette moved again, trying to pull the baroness away from her increasingly frantic search for the bottle. “And what happens to me or any of the other girls is not your punishment.”

“Of course it is! He is showing me what a woman can do. With Audra it came so easily. And as he taught her, I watched. I learned.” Then she slumped back against the wall, her entire demeanor defeated. “But I am too old.” She gestured at the pale wrinkles on her face, the aged skin on her arms. “I cannot do what you do. I cannot entice a man.”

Suddenly she shifted, pushing Lynette aside and
grabbing the brandy. Her new position against the wall had shown it to her. Now she gleefully grasped the bottle, tilting it against her lips as she drank greedily. Then, when at last she had to draw breath, she turned back to Lynette.

“It is too late for me. And every day he brings young girls into the household to show me that.”

Lynette stared at the older woman. She heard the words, but more than anything else she heard the lies. If nothing else, her childhood had taught her how to recognize falsehoods. Not the ones between people, but the ones people told themselves. How often had she seen two people, both with equal circumstances but one thriving while the other faltered, his life and skills wasted away in bitter failure? Her father always claimed it was God’s will, that perhaps one had sinned horribly and the other not.

At first she had believed him. But not for long. Eventually she’d seen something else. Or rather, she’d heard it. The one who failed was always the one who complained. That was the soul who wasted his life and skills, spending his time wallowing in excuse after excuse, listing his stack of grievances for any who would hear. And more often than not, that task of listening fell to her.

But the more she sat and heard, the more she’d understood how hollow those excuses were. True, many grievances were painful, some even an undeniable reality. But that did not change the fact that others had overcome such difficulties. Others had even found happiness.

While the complainer was left with failure and a long string of excuses.

The baroness, apparently, was one of these. Rather than face her situation, she had chosen instead to crawl into a bottle with her life, her pride, and her excuses.

Lynette sighed, wondering if there was, indeed, any hope for the woman. And if the answer was no, then what could Lynette hope to learn from her?

She stood, looking down at the baroness where the woman had collapsed, crumpled on the floor, bottle in hand. She took a moment, knowing that the baroness saw her, slanting resentful glances upward.

“Does capturing a man involve great beauty?” Lynette asked.

The baroness did not respond at first. She chose instead to take another long pull of brandy. Lynette repeated the question, making it clear that she would not leave until it was answered.

“Does capturing a man involve great beauty?”

“Of course not,” snapped the baroness hatefully. “Have you not been listening, girl? It requires cunning. Constant change. A thorough understanding of his baser needs.”

“It requires intelligence, then.”

The baroness snorted. “Aye. Great intelligence.” She slanted another disdainful look upward. “Think you have it?” Her words were more a sneer than a challenge, but Lynette chose to accept it as a gauntlet thrown at her feet.

“Yes, I do,” she answered levelly. Then she crouched down, catching the baroness’s eyes on her level. “Do you?”

The woman reared back as if slapped. “What are you talking about?”

Lynette pressed her point home. “Trapping a man requires no real beauty. Fine. I am not beautiful. Fine. Neither are you.”

The baroness looked away, ready to draw again from her bottle. But Lynette grasped her hand, keeping the liquor out of reach.

“You have a choice, Baroness. Teach me what to do, show me the skills I need.”

“Or?”

But Lynette wasn’t ready to give her the other option. She was still issuing her challenge. “Pick a man, Baroness. Show me how wiles can work without beauty.” She leaned even closer. “Make yourself a greater success than any of the Marlock girls. Show me. Show your nephew exactly what you can do.”

The baroness didn’t even blink. Instead, she lifted her chin to gaze down her nose at Lynette. “Or?”

Lynette grimaced. “Or finish your bottle of brandy and I will do it myself.” She stood and walked away. But with every step she took she prayed, silently imploring God with every breath.
Please,
she begged,
please help her help me. I don’t know how to do this alone.

The baroness chose to drink the morning away.

Which left Lynette many hours of leisure in which to contemplate their conversation. Oddly enough, it was not the baroness’s sad tale that filled her thoughts. It was, in fact, something else entirely.

You have fallen in love with him.

The baroness’s words haunted Lynette, making her pace tight circles in her room. Was it true? Had she fallen for the man? She would admit to a certain awareness of him. She constantly listened for his footsteps, wondered at his moods, even occupied herself with tiny fantasies about him. About him touching her. About him
explaining
things to her. But was that “love”?

Of course not. But if she did not love Adrian, why did the baroness’s next words bother her so?

He hasn’t a heart, you know. And certainly not one for his girls.

And that was when Lynette had to admit to herself that perhaps she had developed a certain attachment to Adrian. Not amorous, necessarily. But emotional. Competitive. He angered her. He intrigued her. He frustrated her. He enticed her.

That was all part of his teaching, she supposed. And she would do well to remember that. Besides, he was not a rich man. He was, in fact, decidedly poor, and not what she wanted. She wanted—needed—wealth. To sponsor her sister. To help her brother. To embark upon her widowhood. And Adrian wanted only one thing himself: the money to rebuild his estate.

Thus, after many hours stewing, Lynette decided to rededicate herself to her original task of finding a wealthy husband. And she could start today, with her drive in Hyde Park with Lord Rendlen.

She would have valued the baroness’s input on which outfit to wear, but as the woman was otherwise occupied, Lynette had to make the choice on her own. Uncertain what was appropriate, she picked the most demure costume she could find: a dark blue gown heavy enough for the outdoors. Unfortunately, it also sported a neckline much too low for her tastes.

At least it was not diaphanous.

She donned it carefully, then did her best with her coiffure. It was much more simple than the style she had worn the night before, but it still framed her face sweetly, she thought, and gave her somewhat angular looks a softness.

Her hand hesitated over the cosmetics pots, left from last night. Did she dare attempt it herself? She remembered only some of what the baroness had done, and most of it she thought she could duplicate. But did she dare? On her own?

It took a while, but she finally convinced herself that she did not
not
dare. She needed to captivate an eligible bachelor, and if cosmetics were part of the task, then so be it. She opened the pot.

She ended up scrubbing her face clean three times before she found a balance she liked. She had added only the tiniest bit of color to her cheeks and lips: beyond that, she did not want to go. In truth, as she peered at her reflection, she was hard put to decide if she had indeed added any color, or if it was merely the exuberance of her washing that had put a blush on her cheeks. In either event, there was no more time. The knocker was sounding. He was here.

Now she had a new problem. Without the baroness, she could not properly receive him. She thought of rousing the woman, but by Dunwort’s last account, the woman was in a drunken stupor and not fit for company. Her only options were to forego the visit or dispense with the formalities.

Since she could not practice her feminine wiles without a subject, she chose to bend the rules of society. Besides, she thought irreverently, her reputation was already severely blemished; what did it matter? She would have to entertain Lord Rendlen alone.

Glancing out the window, she was relieved to see he had brought a high-perched phaeton. Excellent. She could, with all propriety, ride in that vehicle without a chaperone. It was only in the house that she stretched the rules.

She pressed her face closer to the window, inspecting the carriage as critically as she could. It was a handsome equipage, even by her limited understanding. The paint looked sharp, the equipment sturdy, and the tiger—a sturdy boy in his teens—appeared
quite stunning in his livery. In short, it was the vehicle of a wealthy man, and therefore fit her criteria.

She turned as Dunwort knocked at her door. “Lord Rendlen waits below,” came his deep tones from behind the heavy wood.

Lynette quickly pulled open her door. She saw Dunwort’s creased and worried brow. “The baroness?” she asked hopefully, praying the woman had pulled herself together.

To her dismay, Dunwort shook his head. “Not today. And likely not even tomorrow.” He sighed. “Ye pushed ’er hard, girl. She may not stop drinkin’ ever.”

“I know,” Lynette said sadly. She grabbed her bonnet, then slipped past him.

Lord Rendlen awaited her in the parlor. He was dressed beautifully, in a superfine coat of darkest blue that perfectly matched his eyes. His blond locks were in a casual disarray that made him look somehow sinful. And when he raised his eyebrows at her solitary entrance, the speculation in his expression added to his appearance of mischief.

Still, the appreciation in his eyes warmed her from head to toe.

“Miss Jameson, you are a vision indeed.”

She dropped into a demure curtsey. “My lord,” she greeted. “If I am lovely, then it is only because I strove to be worthy of you.”

He grinned, and his face became the visage of an angel. “Are we alone?” he asked.

Lynette hesitated, then chose to be direct. “I am afraid the baroness is indisposed.”

“How unfortunate,” he murmured. But his eyes betrayed no regret.

“I realize that propriety dictates that we miss our ride together…” she began.

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “We can ride in the park with perfect ease.” He stepped forward, his smile daring her into mischief. “It is only in the house that tongues will wag. As we are alone…” His voice trailed away suggestively.

“I think,” Lynette said in bracing tones, “that we had best get outside then. Where it is proper.”

He sighed in regret, then acceded to her request. But as he offered her his arm, he leaned in close to make a scandalous suggestion. “Perhaps, though, we should spend a little extra time on our ride? We needn’t restrict ourselves to a bare half hour and remain solely at the park, need we?”

“But that is not proper,” she chided, though with little heat. After all, she was supposed to be flirting with the man. She could not do that if she adhered strictly to the rules of Society, could she?

“I am only thinking of the baroness,” he offered as he guided her out of the door. “We must give her as much time as possible to rest.”

She bit her lip, trying to be alluring. “Perhaps we could remain out a
little
bit longer than is strictly allowed.”

Lord Rendlen’s eyebrows raised as he guided her to her seat. “Miss Jameson, I adore it when you are naughty.”

She smiled, trying to look pretty. “Then I shall endeavor to be more so.” She paused, mentally reviewing her words. That was not exactly what she had meant to say, but she could not retract it now. Especially when Lord Rendlen grinned so beautifully at her before springing up into his phaeton.

The first few moments were spent absorbed in his horses. Or rather, he seemed to be absorbed in the animals. She was more interested in how he managed the spirited team. His muscles were strong and sleek, his concentration fierce. Apparently he took his horseflesh seriously. Excellent, she thought, admiring his skill. It would be a pity to spend so much money on prized horses only to mistreat or ignore them.

Moments later, his team settled, he diverted his attention to her. “So, Miss Jameson. You are a clergyman’s daughter.”

“No,” she responded sweetly. “I am myself. My father happened to be a clergyman.” She did not know why she said that. She had never before denied her connection to her parents, even obliquely. Now, for the first time in her life, she suddenly wanted to be her own person. Not her father’s daughter. Not a Marlock girl. Not even a sister or a confidante or a friend.

She merely wished to be herself. Out for a ride in the park with a handsome gentleman who happened to be rich and titled.

He nodded, apparently accepting her odd statement at face value. “Very well, Miss Jameson. About what shall we converse?”

She turned, giving him her most guileless smile. Then, for effect, she dropped her fan into her lap, giving him a fuller view of her cleavage. It was an awkward movement. She had never used such a ploy before, but the baroness had been most explicit in teaching her the language of the fan. This drop-and-retrieve tactic, she had said, was the most obvious, but also the most effective.

Men like breasts, so let ’em look.

Lord Rendlen did not disappoint her. He took full advantage of his superior height. Meanwhile, she spoke the words the baroness had told her to say. “I wish to discuss you, of course! I want to know everything about you. I want to know about your horses, your carriages, your favorite pastimes. Everything! What is your favorite food?”

If he was surprised by her statement, he did not show it. Either that or he was too addled by the sight of her half-bared breasts to object. With the help of a few more jiggles and a little feminine coaxing, he was soon telling her all about his hounds, his horses, his favorite beef pie and cream puddings. He gabbled on about hunting and tailors and the benefits of a good watch fob. And all the while she smiled and jiggled her cleavage and took mental note of everything he said.

If she were to marry him, she would need to know his favorite things.

But after two turns about the park, apparently his tongue grew tired. He turned to her, surprise in his expression. “My goodness, I have told you more about myself than most of my dearest friends know.”

Again she gave him her sweetest smile. “I am an excellent listener, my lord. I suppose that was one of the benefits of being a clergyman’s child.”

“Ah,” he remarked, as if he understood. He didn’t, of course. No one ever realized how much a cleric’s job was to simply listen to his parishioners. Lynette doubted, in fact, that her father even understood. He spent more time telling them what to do, whereas she had been required to listen, to hear what they wanted, and understand what they were not saying.

And in all that Lord Rendlen had told her, she had
heard something else entirely. His lordship, although he liked good tailoring and good hounds and good horses, had a taste for something different. She was not sure what, exactly. He did not tell her.

But he had spent a good ten minutes describing a hunt he had experienced some months before, a particularly bloody hunt wherein two of his hounds became so frenzied after ripping the poor fox to shreds, they had descended upon one another. Blood, fur, and spittle had flown every which way. Lord Rendlen remembered the screams of the fox, the growl of his dogs, and most especially the scent of blood. And he remembered it all in excruciating detail.

Which Lynette found unsettling.

But just as she was becoming distinctly uncomfortable with his recounting of the tale, he had stopped himself, turning the conversation to her.

“Now you must tell me all about yourself,” he said. “What are your favorite pastimes? What do you learn in the Marlock household?”

Her gaze sharpened at his last question. Though his expression appeared innocent, she could tell he knew a great deal about what she was learning from the viscount. In fact, she had the distinct impression that he knew more than she, and that bothered her.

Before she could respond, he stopped the phaeton. “I thought we could take a walk,” he said. Then he gestured to a tree-lined path.

Lynette eyed the pathway critically. There were other couples strolling along it, and there were, of course, many dozens of other vehicles circling the park. She need have no fear for her virtue here. So she gave him another dazzling smile, thinking that she
was already growing weary of these sickly sweet expressions, and agreed as prettily as she could.

He was beside her in a moment, helping her down. Then, faster than she believed possible, they were strolling down the lane.

“Marlock told you about me, didn’t he?”

Lynette’s step hitched noticeably. “I beg your pardon?”

Rendlen patted her hand in an avuncular manner. “Never fear, my dear. Adrian has never hidden his dislike of me. But that never interferes with business, does it?”

She frowned, not completely understanding what he was saying, but beginning to have an inkling. Still, she played as innocent as she could. “I have no idea what you mean, my lord.”

He stopped, turning to face her directly. Lynette had enough time to glance around them. Oddly enough, though nearly a hundred people surrounded them in one way or another, not a one of them appeared in their particular stretch of lane. If she closed her mind to the muted sounds of horses and voices, she could well imagine herself alone with him.

“I shall be blunt. Marlock and I dislike one another. I find him hypocritically priggish, and he finds me uncowed by his arrogance and knowledgeable about his faults. However, business is business, my dear, and he has allowed me to see you today. Why? Because he knows I am an eligible party for his particular wares.”

His gaze became even more intense, and Lynette felt a dark chill race down her spine. Still, in a world of new experiences, this one was not necessarily unpleasant.
So she shifted, returning his gaze frankly. “You mean you are interested in marrying me, and I, in turn, should be interested in your wealth and position in society.”

He nodded. “I enjoy the thought of a Marlock woman.”

She took a step away, moving slowly and coyly as she sifted through his words. “Are you proposing, my lord?”

He took her arm, drawing her close to his side. “Perhaps,” he whispered, and then, abruptly, he angled in for a kiss.

Mindful of the viscount’s instructions, not to mention the broad daylight and hundred people nearby, Lynette swiftly drew away. In fact, in that moment instinct took over. She found herself swinging hard, her open hand prepared to slap him with a stinging blow.