Improper Ladies (6 page)

Justin looked down at the long, pink-and-cream needlework rug beneath his boots.

All last night he had lain sleepless in his bed, thinking about the happenings at the Golden Feather and the mysterious Mrs. Archer. It seemed now that the conclusions he had reached at four in the morning were true. Mrs. Archer was a lady of some sort. Perhaps the ruined daughter of some country squire or a rich man’s former mistress set up now in her own business.

Her voice had been educated, though pitched low and quiet, her gestures refined and polite. There was no coarseness about her, nothing that might be expected of a woman living the scandalous life of a gaming house keeper.

But, of course, those had all been impressions gathered in night’s mysterious cloak. Darkness could hide a wealth of flaws and sins—as could a mask.

No doubt in the light of day, without the concealing scrap of silk, she would appear very different. Old, maybe, or pockmarked, or simply rude. She could not be what his fevered imaginings had suggested. That was impossible.

Just as he had thought it impossible she would wear a mask in the daytime. Then the maid ushered him into an office, and he saw that Mrs. Archer did indeed wear her concealing mask, even in this hot afternoon.

Her red hair was styled simply today, and her blue silk mask matched her very proper pale blue muslin day dress, but she still looked impossibly exotic in the spartan office.

Justin was seized with the desire, more intense than any desire he had ever known, to see what was beneath the mask.

It seemed that was not to happen, not today, anyway. Mrs. Archer rose behind the large, cluttered desk and held her hand out to him with a smile.

“Good afternoon, Lord Lyndon,” she said, in the same low voice he remembered. “Won’t you please be seated?” She gestured toward the straight-backed wooden chair situated across from her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Archer.” Justin placed his hat and cane on the desk beside the pile of ledger books, and sat down. “I trust you have suffered no ill effects from last night’s ... incident?”

Mrs. Archer laughed. “Certainly not! It would take a great deal more than that little fight, I assure you. I am very glad to see you today, though, Lord Lyndon.”

She was glad to see him? He felt an unwilling little frisson of excitement. “Are you indeed, Mrs. Archer?”

“Oh, yes. I have received two very good offers to buy this place, and I am sure I would have to lower my price if the necessary repairs are not made to the gaming room. Your offer of assistance does expedite things greatly.”

“So you are really leaving the Golden Feather? My brother said something to that effect.” Justin was unaccountably disappointed. Even if she stayed at the place for the next ten years, he could not come back here. Why would he care if she were there or not?

But he found he did care.

“Yes. I hope to be gone from here very soon.”

“I am sure all your patrons must be desolate,” he said, carefully impersonal.

She shrugged. “The new owner will keep things much the same. No one will notice the difference.”

“I know that is not true. My brother calls you ‘the incomparable Mrs. Archer,’ and says you are the only reason so many flock here.”

“Did he indeed? Your brother is very sweet. I trust he is not too ill today.”

“He was still asleep when I left the house.”

She nodded. “Sleep is the best thing for him. Perhaps when he wakes you could give him a glass of carrot juice mixed with one raw egg. It always helped my hus—” She broke off abruptly, her gaze falling back to the desk. “That is, I have heard many people swear by its efficacy after a night of overindulgence.”

Had she been about to say her husband? Justin wondered, with a small jealous pang. Exactly what kind of man was Mr. Archer—or had he been—to deserve a wife like this one? “I wish I had known of such a cure in my younger days.”

She smiled at him. “Were you a wild young man, Lord Lyndon?”

“I was terrible. Far worse than Harry.”

“But India wrung it out of you, so to speak?”

“Indeed it did. It is hard to play the rake properly when one is laid low by humid heat and snakebite.”

The satin of her mask wrinkled a bit as she frowned. “Were you bitten by a snake, then?”

“Twice. After that I learned to be wary. I was lucky to have a servant who knew all about how to treat such things, so I suffered no permanent ill effects.”

Mrs. Archer propped her chin on her palm and said in a thoughtful voice, “India must have been very fascinating.”

Justin looked at her and noticed for the first time that her eyes were brown. Deep and rich, like a cup of chocolate.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Fascinating.”

She stared back at him for a long moment. Then she seemed to recall where they were,
who
they were. She shook her head and sat up straight in her chair.

“Here is a list of all the damages,” she said briskly, handing him a sheet of paper. “I estimated the cost of the repairs, which you will see here down at the bottom.”

Justin dragged himself out of the enchanted circle of her eyes, her perfume, and forced himself to look down at the paper. The neatly printed words refused to come into focus.

He handed it back to her. Their fingers brushed briefly, warmly. The gold of her wedding band, thin and worn, glinted up at him.

That ring, a symbol of things respectable and permanent, seemed to slap him across the face.

He meant to find a proper wife, to do honor by his family. He should not be losing his senses over a pretty gaming house owner!

“It all looks satisfactory,” he said quietly.

“Good. If you would like to leave the money with my maid, then, we shall be settled.” She rose again to her feet, and Justin followed.

She continued, in an oddly rushed and breathless voice, “I am sure you must be very busy, Lord Lyndon, so I won’t detain you any longer.” She turned to walk around the edge of the desk. “I will see you to the door....”

Then suddenly half of her seemed shorter than the other half. She gave a little squeak and tottered a bit on her feet.

“Mrs. Archer!” Justin said, coming around the desk and offering his hand to help her regain her balance. One of her shoes, a high-heeled satin affair with brocade ribbons, lay on its side just outside the hem of her skirt. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, I am quite all right!” she said with an embarrassed little laugh. “I just forgot that I did not lace my shoe properly when I put it back on earlier.”

“You had your shoes off?” Justin asked, not sure he had heard her properly.

She shot him a haughty glance. “Of course. Doesn’t everyone go about in bare feet on a hot day?”

He hardly dared to contradict her. Instead, he knelt down beside her and said, “Let me help you with your shoe, then.”

She looked a bit reluctant, but then nodded and slid her foot from beneath her skirt.

He picked up the shoe, noticing with a start that she also did not believe in wearing stockings on a hot day. Terribly scandalous—and terribly attractive. He tried to ignore this, and slid the shoe onto her bare foot, holding the arch of it on his palm for one instant. It was slim and white in his hand, the bones as delicate as those of a small bird. Her toes wiggled, and she giggled a bit as his fingers slid over her sole.

He reached to tie the ribbons, and gasped. “You are injured!” he exclaimed.

Then he looked closer and saw that the gash on her ankle was an old one, not one she had just gotten. Thick, pale pink scar tissue arced across her creamy skin.

She had been badly cut at one time, but not today.

She tugged at her foot, trying to remove it from his grasp. He was almost thrown off his balance by this, and grasped her skirt to steady himself. “ ’Tis an old injury,” she said. “Not one to worry about.”

“But what ...”

He was interrupted when the office door opened and Mrs. Archer’s maid came inside.

“Madam, I just wanted to see if—” She broke into a long scream when she saw him kneeling there, grasping Mrs. Archer’s skirt. “What are you doing! Unhand her right now, you brute!”

The fragile-looking older woman grabbed a ledger book off the desk and commenced beating him about the head and shoulders with it. Her mask fell askew, but still she wielded the book.

It hurt like the very devil! Justin feared he would soon be knocked unconscious by the blows, and then what a scandal would ensue.

“Cease, woman!” he yelled, trying to grab at the book. “It is not what you think.”

“Not what I think! I know your sort. You leave my lamb alone!”

“Mary, no!” Mrs. Archer reached down and hauled Justin to his feet. “I merely lost my balance, and Lord Lyndon was kind enough to help me. There was nothing improper at all.”

“Oh?” Mary slowly lowered the book. “Truly, madam?”

“Truly, He has been the ... the perfect gentleman.”

“Well, in that case ...” Mary placed the book back on the desk, straightened her cap on her graying brown curls, and her mask over her face and said, “Would you care for some tea, my lord?”

“Did you conclude your business satisfactorily, then, dear?” Amelia glanced up from her embroidery and smiled as Justin came into the small, sunny sitting room.

“Quite satisfactorily.” If one considered getting beaten about the head by an irate housemaid satisfactory. Justin almost laughed aloud at the memory of that chaotic scene. Then he almost groaned as the memory of another scene replaced it—that of holding Mrs. Archer’s bare, elegant foot in his hand.

By Jove, but he had been too long without a woman if a naked foot could affect him so.

He sat down across from his mother and reached for a glass of lemonade, wishing it were something a good deal stronger. He needed it after the day he had had.

“There is cake, too,” Amelia said.

“No, thank you, Mother. I stopped and had luncheon at the club. It’s been years since I went there, but I found I am still on the membership books.” He looked about the room again, thinking that it was too oddly quiet.

Then he realized why. Harry was nowhere in evidence.

Justin sighed and took another long sip of lemonade. His brother was probably off somewhere getting into trouble again. Justin had not thought it likely in the middle of the day, but a young man intent on mischief could find it at any time.

“I suppose Harry is out?” he said.

“Oh, no, indeed,” Amelia answered. “He is still upstairs asleep.”

“Asleep? In the middle of the afternoon?”

His mother gave a little, secretive smile as she plied her needle through the snowy linen. “I gave him a small dose of my old medicine. You remember, from back when the doctor said I had ‘weak blood.’ I have not taken the stuff since your father died, and I rarely give it to Harry. It is so difficult to give up once started, and it has made all the difference since I made myself give it up. But I felt he should stay home today. You will surely want to speak with him later.”

Justin gave a doubtful snort. “My ‘speaking to him’ hardly seems to make any difference, Mother. The words simply go in one ear and out the other.”

Amelia laughed. “Rather like someone else I once knew! I had also thought, though, that he might be more amenable to our summer plans if he had a good night’s sleep.”

“Oh? And what are our plans?” Justin reached for the crystal pitcher to pour out another glass of lemonade. “Are we off to Waring Castle, the ancestral pile?”

“We can go there if you like, of course. However, my friend Lady Bellweather called on me this morning, and she has given me a much better idea.”

Lady Bellweather? She with the eligible daughter? Justin looked at his mother warily. “What sort of idea?”

“My dear, you sound as if I am about to suggest being boiled in oil! It is nothing onerous. Lady Bellweather is taking her children to Wycombe-on-Sea for the summer, and I thought how nice it would be to see that town again.” Amelia smiled softly. “Your father and I went there once, when we were first married. Before any of you children came along. I thought it was truly lovely, a most amiable place. But your father preferred Waring or the hunting box in Scotland.”

Justin saw the faraway glint in his mother’s eyes and thought she must hold that long-ago trip to Wycombe-on-Sea in even greater esteem than she said. “So you never went back there?”

“Never. But we can go there now, if we so choose! I know it will not be the same as it was thirty years ago. Lady Bellweather goes there every year, though, and she says it is still delightful. There are assembly rooms and concerts, as well as the sea bathing. It is not as grand as Brighton, but I do think the fresh air would be so good for you and Harry.”

“And for you, Mother?”

She laughed. “Perhaps! At least in Wycombe I shall know that my days of holidays spent standing about in bogs waiting for the grouse to fly, or whatever it was we were doing, are behind me now. What do you think, dear?”

Justin thought he would prefer the quiet of Waring to doing the pretty at some sea resort. But he had never seen his mother looking happier or more excited, and he didn’t have the heart to take that away from her. “I think that Wycombe sounds a splendid idea.”

Amelia leaped to her feet, her sewing falling unheeded to the floor, and rushed over to kiss his cheek. “Oh, my dear, you will not be sorry! We shall have such a grand summer. And just wait until you meet Miss Bellweather. She is truly lovely. Oh, I must go and start my packing! I hope I have the right clothes for the seaside.”

With one last kiss, she hurried off, intent on her holiday.

Justin sat back in his chair, sipping at his lemonade, listening as his mother called for her maid. So the price he had to pay for his mother’s happiness was meeting this Bellweather girl, was it?