How To Vex A Viscount (22 page)

—the journal of Blanche La Tour

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Rutland is well spoken; I’ll give him that.” Lord Wexford closed his wife’s bedchamber door behind him.

It was Thursday. The servants expected him to spend an extended period of time in Isabella’s room tonight, and, given his delicate situation, it wouldn’t do to ignore their expectations.

“Does your great-niece like him then?”

“Geoffrey Haversham! Have you misplaced your eyes? Of course she likes him.” Isabella removed her powdered wig and began pulling the pins that bound her hair into a tight little knot. “How could you miss that?”

“I’m afraid I’ve missed quite a bit of late.” Geoff crossed the room and began helping his wife remove the pins from her silky hair. He watched her in the mirror as she lowered her arms and closed her eyes, a satisfied smile lifting the corners of her lips. He picked up the brush and ran the boar bristles through the length of her silver tresses.

Isabella loved it when he brushed her hair. It wasn’t much, but he could do this for her. Gladly.

“Yes, I even missed the fact that I seem to have a mysterious houseguest,” he said. “So, who is this Blanche La Tour?”

Isabella’s eyes snapped open. “It doesn’t matter. She’s going away very soon.”

“All right.” He bent and dropped a pecking kiss on her bare shoulder. “Keep your secrets, Bella. Lord knows, you keep mine well enough.”

He might have imagined it, but a shadow seemed to pass behind her eyes. Then just as suddenly it was gone, and she smiled at him.

“Love, they say, covers a multitude of sins,” Isabella said sardonically. “Between the two of us, my dear, we must have hit all the seven deadlies many times over.”

“Without doubt,” Geoff agreed amiably.

Isabella stood and presented her still-straight back to him so he could unlace her stays. A lovely little domestic thing to do. It pleased him as much as it seemed to please her. His nimble fingers flew down the row of eyelets, tugging her free of her whalebone prison.

How many men had fantasized about unlacing the notorious courtesan Isabella Wren? Wondering what passions she might initiate them in, what exotic techniques for pleasuring she might possess? A night with La Belle Wren was reputedly the stuff of legends, a man’s dearest desires fulfilled.

Geoff wished it meant something to him.

Isabella turned to face him, holding up her dress. The line of her neck, the swell of her breasts, everything in him that appreciated beauty enjoyed the sight of his lovely wife.

Everything but that all-important six inches.

“You could stay the night, Geoffrey.” She stepped closer and let the dress fall. “Not that I expect . . . I mean, we could just . . . be together. Hold each other.”

Damn.
He hated to hurt her.

“Bella.” He drew her into his arms and hugged her close. She misinterpreted the gesture and melted into him. He pulled back. “I’m sorry. I . . . have plans.”

The shadow was definitely back. “Vincenzo?”

“Yes, but it’s not what you’re thinking,” he said. “He hardly ever gets a chance to go out for a bit of diversion, so I thought I’d take him somewhere and grab a pint. We’ll just be two men having a drink together.”

She forced a smile. “Careful, darling. Isn’t drunkenness another one of those deadly sins?”

“Drunkenness is the least of my vices, and besides, I don’t think it even made the list. I believe you’re thinking of gluttony,” he said, catching one of her hands. Geoff ignored the tiny veins that had begun to show on the backs of them. He knew Isabella’s soul was still young and beautiful. What did this crude flesh have to do with anything? He kissed her palm. “You knew what I was when we married.”

“Yes, and you knew what I was,” she replied with an arch of a silver brow. She was still every inch the courtesan, but her smile seemed genuine. “So you can’t blame a girl for trying.”

He laughed. “Ah, Bella, if I were capable of loving a woman, believe me, it would be you.” He cupped her cheek and searched her face for a moment. “I do love you, you know, in my way.”

“And I love you, Geoff,” she said, her violet eyes shining. “Even though there are those who might say I’ve known too much love.”

He kissed her cheek and strode to the door.

As the latch clicked, he thought he heard her say, “And yet, not enough.”

Lord Wexford and his valet, Vincenzo, climbed out of the hired cab and entered The Unicorn, the worst-looking of the lot on a crooked lane of disreputable establishments. Geoffrey raised a scented hankie to his nose to cover the stench of the place.

“Put that thing down,” Vincenzo hissed. “Unless you want the pickpockets to mark you.”

Geoff shoved the handkerchief into his deep turned-back cuff. The last thing he needed was for anyone to mark him, let alone pickpockets. That was one reason he’d allowed Vincenzo to dress him several notches beneath his station. In this shoddy attire, no one would recognize him as the Earl of Wexford and wonder what he was doing out and about in the company of his valet instead of his wife—or, at the very least, one of his peers.

The other reason to tone down his dress was to level the playing field a bit between himself and the only lover Geoffrey Haversham had ever had. Vincenzo had been with him since he was a lad, serving him, dressing him and, later, teaching him what it was to love a man.

Even though Vincenzo was surly at times, Geoff did love him.

They made for a booth in the far corner and settled in. An indecently clad girl brought them tankards and flitted away, pouting when neither of them deposited a coin between her ample breasts.

No one should put their sexuality so blatantly on display,
Geoff thought. In some ways, his opinions lined up neatly with those of the Puritans of the previous century. He smiled at the irony and sipped his ale.

“Ugh! That tastes like—”

“Horse piss,” Vincenzo finished for him sourly. “What did you expect in a place like this?”

“You picked the place.”

“Yes, and we both know why.”

Secrecy and shame.
Sometimes, Geoff thought those twin
S’s
were branded on his forehead. First, he had to hide his nature to protect his father. Then when the old earl died and Geoffrey took his place, he was under intense pressure to wed and beget an heir.

He settled for half a loaf. Marrying Isabella Wren accomplished several things. It increased Geoffrey’s stature as a man with an intensely desirable wife, one who had resisted matrimony for years in favour of a courtesan’s freedom. Lack of an heir was squarely laid at his older wife’s feet. In that case, there was nothing wrong in naming his younger cousin as heir apparent. He and Isabella had been dear friends for years. They shared common interests—the opera, poetry, philosophy. His marriage to Bella made imminent sense, to his mind.

But it made Vincenzo surlier than ever.

Now they sat together in stone-faced silence in what surely must be the most odoriferous pub in all London.

Sometimes, Geoff thought, there was no place on earth where he could be truly happy. He took another sip of the ale. The horse piss tasted slightly better.

After his third tankard, it was pure nectar. Vincenzo still wasn’t talking much, but the fellows in the booth behind them more than made up for it. In fact, Geoff put his finger to his lips when Vincenzo finally started to speak so he could continue to follow the conversation on the other side of the rough planks.

“. . . and if I throw my lot in with you, what compensation might I expect?”

“Do ye have debt? Ye’ll find them cancelled if ye owe someone who supports the bloody German.” The man’s slight brogue pricked Geoff’s ear. A troublemaking Scot. “Do ye need income? When the true king takes the throne, your worries are over. He’ll come with rich rewards in his hand.”

“A man in my position always garners a few enemies. What if I have scores to settle?” the first voice asked, his tone cultured and condescending, with just a slight slur to indicate a few too many upended pints.

Obviously a peer of the realm.

And talking treason to boot. Geoff wished he’d taken the seat occupied by Vincenzo. He might have a chance at recognizing the speaker. Still, his valet knew a good many members of the House of Lords by sight. Vincenzo frequently accompanied him to sessions of that august body to serve as courier should need arise.

Geoffrey mouthed
Who is that?
to Vincenzo.

His valet understood the silent question, standing and stretching to snatch a quick look at the men in the next booth.

“Who among us hasn’t suffered under the hands of the Hanoverian’s lackeys?” the Scot continued. “Who e’er has done ye dirt will feel the sole of your shoe on his neck.”

After Vincenzo sat, he leaned forward and whispered, “Montford.”

Lord Montford!
Why, wasn’t he Rutland’s father? The young fellow had sat in Geoff’s parlour and behaved for all the world like a model English gentleman while his sire consorted with Scottish rabble-rousers.

“Gabriel Drake in Cornwall,” Montford said. “I want him ruined. Destitute. Deported as an indentured servant, if it can be managed.”

“Aye, that it can, and so he shall be.”

“Very well,” Montford said. “I will discover what progress my son has made. The Roman trove, if such there be, is pledged to your cause. As am I.”

And all his house,
Geoff thought. If a lord committed treason, he might bear the worst punishment, but the rest of his line would suffer as well. Even if they weren’t privy to the sedition.

But what if Rutland knew exactly what his father was doing? He certainly was keen on finding that Roman treasure.

Geoff knew full well that a man might behave exactly as Polite Society expected and yet keep a secret so volatile it had the potential to destroy all he touched.

“Come,” he said curtly to Vincenzo. Moving quietly, Lord Wexford made his way past the bleary-eyed serving girl and belching patrons and into the inky night.

He’d let things slide in his own house, given Isabella too free a hand in dealing with her great-niece. Well, that would end this instant.

There would be no more receiving Lord Rutland in his parlour, no more trysts between him and Miss Drake. No more of her running off to muck about in the dust with filthy antiquities. Whatever devilry the girl had been up to was coming to an abrupt halt. She was Geoffrey’s houseguest. By God, the girl was his responsibility. He owed it to Gabriel Drake to protect her while she bided beneath his roof.

Treason was not something with which to trifle. The plot would unravel. That was a certainty. Geoffrey was a firm believer in the divine right of his sovereign. And a failed coup tainted all the conspirators irreparably, even those who merely brushed against it.

Besides, a respectable house could afford only one damning secret at a time.

“I believe Eve’s eyes were opened not when she took a bite of the apple, but when she first decided to pluck the fruit for herself.”

—the journal of Blanche La Tour

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Go away!” Daisy plopped belly-first onto her bed.

“I’m not going away, and I must say, it doesn’t become you to behave as though you were a child.” Isabella’s voice sounded from the other side of Daisy’s recently slammed bedchamber door.

“Perhaps if I weren’t being treated like one, I’d take your opinion more to heart.” She blinked back the tears of rage. Lord Wexford had been a veritable storm cloud when Daisy appeared for breakfast that morning. The thunder in his voice surprised her almost more than it scared her. He was usually such a mild and mannerly fellow, Daisy wouldn’t have believed him capable of such sternness. She hadn’t been given such a blistering set-down since she set the solarium tapestry on fire, quite by accident, when she was twelve.

The earl had informed her in no uncertain terms that Lord Rutland would no longer be received in his house. And Daisy was not to return to the Roman excavation under any circumstances. All ties were to be severed between her and Lucian Beaumont or Lord Wexford would drop his exceedingly important affairs in the House of Lords and personally escort her back to her uncle’s home in Cornwall.

And if that eventuality occurred, he promised Daisy would not find it a pleasant trip.

Daisy had responded in kind and said a great many things she wished she could stuff back into her mouth when she saw the expression of hurt on her great-aunt’s face.

Of course, the miserable scene wasn’t Isabella’s fault. But how dared that prig of a husband of hers order Daisy not to see Lucian again! It wasn’t as if he were her guardian, for pity’s sake. And it wasn’t as if Lucian and she were courting. Not really. A few kisses did not a declaration make.

Not as long as they weren’t caught at it.

In any case, if Uncle Gabriel trusted Daisy to manage her own affairs, what business was it of Lord Wexford’s?

Still, she ought not be rude to her great-aunt. “Isabella?”