Lady Windermere's Lover (24 page)

Chapter 25

S
ince their butler and a large, almost naked footman shared their carriage, Lord and Lady Windermere were constrained from exchanges, verbal or otherwise, of any intimacy on the way home. After her ordeal, Cynthia would have enjoyed a little intimacy. Damian seemed his old self, his face flat and shuttered. If Radcliffe was their villain, it would hit her husband hard.

Now that the exhilaration of defeating Maxwell had passed, the victory of the extortionist—whether Radcliffe or another—grated on her. He had got what he wanted and Julian had paid for it. It wasn’t fair. She rather thought Damian agreed with her. Without knowing what had happened between them that morning, she’d sensed a shift in their relationship.

“I’m going up to change,” she said, “then I think I’ll rest for a while in my chamber. Join me when you can.” She hoped for kisses and comfort and a long, interesting dissection of recent events. That was what marriage should be like.

He came in looking serious, and didn’t even react to her best dressing robe in blue silk trimmed with French lace. He hadn’t removed a single garment beyond his topcoat, hat, and gloves. She resolved to do something about it before another hour went by.

“Do you really believe Sir Richard is behind my abduction?” She patted the divan where she had been pretending to nap.

Instead of joining her, he paced. “It’s a possibility. I will make inquiries but unless Maxwell or your uncle gives evidence, I doubt we’ll find proof.”

“Do you mind dreadfully?”

“I had already decided that I’d been mistaken in his character. We will never be on intimate terms again.”

Cynthia wanted to cheer. No more celebrations with Lady Belinda. “I can’t say I was taken with either of the Radcliffes.”

“Which proves, my lady, that you have excellent taste,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “But I already knew that.”

The room was too small to contain his restless pacing. He bounced between the window and fireplace with increasing speed.

“What’s the matter with you, Damian? You’re making me dizzy.” She regarded him fondly. Although unable to tell what had him so agitated, at least he was no longer closed off. Sooner or later he’d tell her what was on his mind.

Settling at last on the hearth, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, like a man about to give a speech at a public meeting. He even cleared his throat. “Denford sacrificed one of the world’s greatest art collections for your safety,” he said abruptly.

“I was amazed as well as grateful. I also don’t underestimate him. Whoever is after it, I’ll back Julian to get the better of him.”

“I hope so. Belgium has been occupied by the French for several years, which is presumably why he hasn’t been able to bring the pictures to England before. Someone like Radcliffe, with useful connections, might have the advantage in retrieving them.”

“Didn’t Julian imply that he used to work for the Foreign Office? Did you have any idea?”

“It came as a complete surprise to me, though it certainly explains a few things.” He cleared his throat. “You have a high opinion of Julian.”

“He’s a very able man. And a good one too, even if he does his best to hide the fact.” How agreeable it would be if the two men could resolve their differences. She didn’t wish to give up Julian’s company. And both would be happier if they could regain a friendship that had been pivotal in their lives. “I know I’ve given you cause—”

He cut her off. “Never mind that now.” He started to pace again, then stopped abruptly, close to her seat. “I believe Julian loves you. Perhaps he even deserves you.”

What was this about?
Cynthia rose to her feet. Momentarily bereft of words by the sheer obtuseness of the man she loved, it was her turn to pace.

“In the time I’ve known you,” she said shaking her head, “I’ve thought you insensitive and I’ve thought you cruel. I have never thought you stupid.” That silenced him. “Julian has been a good friend to me and it means a lot that he cares for me, though I do not believe him in love. But I have
never
truly wanted him.”

When she reached the end of the room and turned around she found him grinning at her. “Well, that’s good,” he said. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

“You aren’t?” It was her turn to feel stupid. “Well, that’s good.”

“What I was
going
to say is that whatever Julian’s feelings, they cannot be as strong as mine. I love you, Cynthia.”

Her heart was hammering so hard she wasn’t sure she’d heard him. Did he say he loved her? She could hardly speak for trembling. “Say that again.”

“I love you. Lord, how feeble I sound. All my vaunted powers of persuasion disappear with you, the most important person in my life.”

“Damian,” she said, standing close enough that she had to tilt her head to see his expression. “You are doing quite well.” Seeing love and uncertainty written plainly on his features, she wanted to sing and dance.

His response to her smile was almost a grimace of pain. “What I want to say is that I love you but I fear I don’t deserve you. I am sorry for all I’ve put you through.”

“The worst wasn’t your fault, even if I thought it was.”

“I should have been there with you. It slays me that you went through such grief alone, and I didn’t even know about it.”

With two steps she was in the protective circle of his arms, held against his chest. They remained thus for a minute, not saying anything. There was no need for tears because finally she was no longer alone.

After a while she let out a gusty sigh into his waistcoat. “I could never love Julian, you know. My heart was already taken.”

He pushed her away to arm’s length. “But you couldn’t have been in love with me. Even if you were, you didn’t remain so.” Nonetheless, his face was bright with hope.

She took both his hands, entwining their fingers. “Listen to me, Damian.” It was hard to speak from the heart; she wasn’t accustomed to it. “We must both forgive and forget everything that happened after our wedding, but I treasure the memory of the ceremony itself. When I walked up to the altar on my uncle’s arm, Aunt Lavinia had been telling me about my unpleasant marital duty and Uncle Chorley talked about sons. I scarcely heard them, because all I could think of was you. When you placed the ring on my finger I realized we had never embraced or kissed, never even touched with ungloved hands.” He returned her clasp and she found it easy to speak after all. “I didn’t know that skin could tingle and glow on contact with another, as it does now. I was frightened and excited about what was to happen that night. But you were so very handsome, I felt sure it would be good. Not like poor Aunt Lavinia, having to do it with Uncle Chorley. I kept peering at your face, the most beautiful masculine features I ever saw.”

“Handsome is as handsome does, goes the proverb. I quickly proved I was as bad as your uncle.”

“Never that. And as you know perfectly well, you’ve made up for your neglect.” She leaned into the strong body that caused her such bliss. In case he didn’t receive the message, she ran her hand down his torso, enjoying the muscles beneath the layers of fine cloth. Lingering for a second at the waist, she proceeded downward. She was looking so she noticed the twitch. Two twitches, actually, one of the lips, one farther down. “You were a serious man, a man of substance and affairs. A man with responsibilities. I couldn’t expect levity from a man like you, neither should I wish it. Yet I hoped. As the vicar pronounced us man and wife and the organ pealed, I swore to myself that if you smiled at me, I would love you.”

“What a dreadful bridegroom I made! I wish I could claim to have been serious and substantial. The truth is I was merely irked.” This came with a more prominent twitch. Or two.

“I took your arm, and looked up at you, and you smiled. Just a tiny movement of the lips. A mere twitch.” She glanced down and the twitch had become a distinct bulge. “I didn’t find out about your dimples until much later. Still, it was enough for me. That’s when I fell in love with you.”

He came up with one last line of defense against her inexorable declaration. “But you didn’t know me. And when you found out what I was like, you hated me.”

“In a hidden place of my heart, that spark of love remained.”

“It’s a miracle it wasn’t crushed by my indifference.”

“A rescued kitten, a whiff of bhang, many small kindnesses, and the ability to send me to heaven with a look and a touch. Each of these fanned that little spark into a flame.”

This time his mouth stretched into a wide, full-bodied, and completely dimpled smile. Recognizing that this was how Damian looked when he was happy, her heart swelled with joy. “Now my lord,” she said softly. “I have a piece of advice for you. Next time you declare love to a lady, do not suggest another gentleman deserves her more. It isn’t a good negotiating position. I’m afraid such incompetence would get you dismissed from the diplomatic service.”

“I shall rely on you in the future to advise me in all my missions. Let me try again.”

He went down on his knees at her feet, his boyish grin making her heart flip. “My lady,” he said, seizing her hands and fervently kissing them. “I love you to the point of madness and I will never stop. If any other man tries to take you away I will kill him, or at least apply severe diplomatic sanctions.”

“My lord,” she replied. “I am happy to see you have recovered from your attack of stupidity. It should be of considerable relief to the Foreign Office.” Trembling, she brushed the hair back from his noble forehead. His beautiful eyes bored into her, inciting a rush of desire.

“How can we make sure I don’t relapse into idiocy and endanger the future of the country?”

She arched into him shamelessly. “Do you have an idea?”

Beneath her skirts he caressed her legs and started on the task of removing her garters. “It is my considered opinion that we should remove all your clothing.”

An Excerpt from
The Duke of Dark Desires

It was a long time ago, almost nine years now, but Jeanne de Falleron had once been under the tutelage of a governess, so it stood to reason that she could be a governess herself. All she had to do was remember what the original Miss Grey had taught her, and how. She had long ago usurped Miss Jane Grey’s name and identity. Stealing her occupation was a mere bagatelle. But to enter the employment of Duke of Denford, first she had to get past an interview.

Jane hadn’t been back to Hanover Square since she saw the advertisement, for every hour had been spent preparing. Fortunately she’d worked hard in the last three months to improve her rusty English.

She hesitated before the shallow flight of steps, white stone blackened by coal dust, leading to the front door, which was in need of a coat of paint. Swallowing her pride she wended her way down to the servants’ entrance. She
was
a servant. And she’d been Jane Grey so long she no longer even thought of herself as Jeanne, except in the secret corners of her soul. What did it matter which door she used, as long as she gained entry to Fortescue House?

The unfavorable impression conveyed by the less than pristine main entrance was reinforced by the wizened little man in a soiled leather apron who opened the lower door, and the tumult behind him.

“Watcherwant?” he said, brandishing a villainous looking brush whose fearsome bristles were caked with soot. She shrank back. The English spoken by London menials was a trial to her, not helped by the high volume of shouting emerging from the depths of this basement level. “I am here about the governess position.”

“Don’t know about any governess.”

“Who is in charge of the female servants? The housekeeper?”

The fellow scratched his head with filthy hands. “Don’t know about any housekeeper.”

In a way this was a good thing. A female servant would be loath to hire a young and pretty governess. Should she ask for the major domo? Somehow such a grand individual didn’t seem plausible in this strange ducal household. About to suggest the butler, an unmistakably Gallic scream cut through the commotion. “
Jamais, jamais, jamais. Les anglais sont impossible
.” A torrent of French drew nearer, excoriating the manners, morals, parenthood, and sexual abilities of every Englishman and promising to leave this accursed house
toute de suite
. By the time he reached the door, Jane had his measure. He was a French cook and she was acquainted with the breed.

He took one look at her and stopped mid-tirade for perhaps two seconds, long enough for a Frenchman to manage a comprehensive ogle, then started again with less volume and considerably cleaner language. She gathered that the kitchen at Fortescue House, where he had just started to work, was filthy, as
impossible
as the English servants who were incapable of understanding his very reasonable requirements. It was even worse than the household of the Earl of
quelque chose
whose employ he’d quit in a fit of pique. She uttered a soothing sentence or two, to the effect that his situation was
affreux
but soon all would appreciate the sublime creations of his art.

Her little speech provoked another torrent, this time of rapture. Never in England had he heard his language spoken with such precision, such elegance. She spoke the true French of the
noblesse
, before those Jacobin villains destroyed
La France
. Almost he could imagine himself back in the hôtel of his master the duc de Fleurigny.

Jane could imagine the same thing, having frequently visited the Hôtel Fleurigny. She thought rapidly. “It is plain to me,” she said, “that your genius will never flourish in such a ménage. Return to your earl. I am sure he wants you back.”

“He does. He says no one cooks a duck like Albert. But, mademoiselle, if you will be here. . .”

“I will not,” she said firmly. “I will not stay in such a place.”

“We will go together and tell
monsieur le duc
de Denford. Bah! Even English names are ugly.”

“That would be extremely unwise. Go, monsieur Albert. I have a small matter of business here and I will convey your disgust and resignation.”

“What’s goin’ on?” The brush yielding doorman unwisely entered the fray and stoked the embers of Albert’s ire. Delivering himself of a final volley of insults, the presence of a lady once more forgotten, the cook swept out of the door, slamming it behind him.

“Noisy that Frenchie. Good riddance. Wonder what he was saying?”

Deeming it unnecessary to inform her companion that he had been damned as a disgusting pig with a penis the size of a bantam’s drumstick, she returned to the main point. “Who exactly is in charge around here?”

“I suppose that’d be Mr. Blackett.”

“Take me to him.”

Before he could obey, a harassed young man sped down the back passage. “Has he gone? Did Albert leave?”

“If you mean the cook,” she said, “yes. I wouldn’t count on his return either. He said something about going back to the employ of an earl who appreciates his genius.” She was fairly confident her own part in Albert’s decision would never be discovered. She was sorry to miss his food, but she couldn’t share a household with a man who might know someone who would recognize her. Emigré circles in London, both of aristocrats and their former servants, were close-knit. She had taken care to avoid them.

The young man, who was dressed soberly but as a gentleman, looked at her in amazement. She was used to that, but in this case it was not her appearance that drew his avid stare. “You speak French?”

“Of course I do. I am a governess.”
I am a governess
, she repeated silently. If she believed it so would he.

“At this moment, I’d rather you were a cook.”

She smiled at the fretful fellow. “Do I look like a cook?”

His face reddened. “Not at all. It’s just that . . . well, we need to eat and Albert is the second one we have lost in two days.”

“He said the kitchen was filthy. Perhaps if it was clean . . .”

Blackett brightened up. “It’s worth trying. Thank you. Now what can I do for you?”

She reached into her pocket and retrieved the advertisement torn from
The Morning Post
. “I am here about the governess position. Whom should I speak to? It says only that applicants should apply at the Duke of Denford’s residence.”

“I’ll take you to His Grace at once.”

“What about Her Grace?” she asked, following Blackett along a chilly passage into the bowels of the mansion.

“There is no duchess.”

The duke must be a widower and the lady she had seen only a visitor. “And you, sir?”

“I am His Grace’s secretary.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Two weeks.”

She wondered if the duke was a particularly difficult employer to suffer such staff turnover. She prepared to manage a crotchety old man, or perhaps an arrogant beast. She’d dealt with worse.

They ascended the stairs and emerged into a hall of suitably ducal proportions. While a double stairway curved gracefully, the banisters needed polish and flakes of plaster from the ceiling were strewn on the worn carpet. Along the painted paneled walls were lighter rectangles where pictures had obviously once hung. The place gave the impression of having been looted. She smiled sourly. Even in England, where the nobility had kept their heads, apparently they hadn’t always kept their money.

Still, she enjoyed the luxury of space, the generously large windows that made the place bright, even on a cloudy day. Lowering her eyelids she let herself imagine that her years in pokey Paris apartments had never happened. But such reminiscences were dangerous. She couldn’t afford to encounter her prospective employer with even a glint of tears to disturb the projection of calm authority she deemed the paramount quality of a governess. A quality much needed in this household, judging by the anxious step and apologetic shoulders of Mr. Blackett.

At the top of the first flight of stairs, a broad landing offered a choice of three doors, one double and all massive, hewn from some dark polished wood with carved architraves that spoke of long established substance. Fortescue House might lack the rococo extravagance of the Hôtel Falleron, but its superficial shabbiness did not disguise the importance of the family.

Without first knocking, Mr. Blackett opened the door on the left to reveal a library. She’d barely had time to admire the ranks of gilded leather spines, when she noticed the room’s sole occupant, at which point observation of architecture and furnishings ceased and she might as well have been in a field, a market square, or a monk’s cell for all she noticed of her surroundings.

She’d seen him before, coming in and out of the house, but too far away to experience the full impact of his presence. He was young, much younger than she’d expected, only about thirty years old, if that. Examining a landscape painting over the fireplace, he presented a striking profile dominated by a slightly hooked nose. He wore his black hair long and tied with a black ribbon, a style that had gone out of fashion since the Revolution, whose citizen leaders favored unaristocratic crops. But there was nothing
ancien régime
about his attire. His tall, lithe figure was clad entirely in black, from his well-polished boots to an intricate neckcloth. Only the white collar of his shirt relieved the sartorial gloom.

At a cough and a “Your Grace” from Mr. Blackett, he turned around and she was transfixed by a pair of startling sky blue eyes that seemed to pierce her through and through.

This was how a duke should look and so rarely did: a model of refinement, elegance and authority. Her stomach lurched and forbidden tears threatened again.

“This lady is here about the governess position.”

“Her name, Blackett?” The deep voice stroked her spine like chords from a viola da gamba.

Blackett appeared nonplussed, his favorite expression. “I forgot to ask.”

The duke’s finely wrought lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Well?” he said. “Since you have reduced Blackett to incoherence, not any great achievement, we’d better introduce ourselves. I am Denford.”

For a mad moment she considered telling the truth, sweeping a magnificent curtsey and introducing herself as Mademoiselle Jeanne-Louise Marie-Adorée de Falleron, eldest daughter of the Marquis de Falleron and a worthy mate for any nobleman, even a duke. Especially a duke.

But she’d put all that behind her and behind her it must stay if she was to fulfill her goal. Nothing else mattered. He wasn’t merely a duke, but also a Fortescue, the most detestable of names. He was her path to the discovery of the man who had killed her family and destroyed her life.

She made her curtsey restrained and obsequious as befitted her supposed station. “Miss Grey, Your Grace,” she said. “Miss Jane Grey.”

“Come in, Miss Jane Grey. You may go, Blackett.” As the secretary scurried out, the duke crossed the room, his movements sleek and economical to match his figure. From a distance of perhaps four or five feet he looked at her, his blue gaze making her dizzy. Never in her life had she set eyes on a man and instantly desired him. How frustrating that this was a man she’d be unwise to encourage, let alone seduce.

Ignoring the bloom of heat in her blood, she pulled herself together and looked him in the eye. She would not bed him, neither would she let herself be intimidated. Since he was the duke and she was being interviewed, she waited for him to speak first. She sensed a controlled strength behind his complete stillness and found it hard not to fidget beneath a gaze whose intensity burned through her and a silence that seemed to spin out endlessly.

“Jane Grey,” he said at last. “Like the queen.”

She’d borne the name for so long she thought of it as her own, though she had a faint recollection of the true Miss Grey mentioning her namesake. She knew the kings of France inside out but, despite a recent review of the subject, she still got her English monarchs confused. Perhaps this other Jane was one of the wives of that terrible Henry.

She lifted her chin and stood her ground. “As far as I am concerned there is only one Jane Grey.”

“Forgotten your history have you? Never mind. She only lasted nine days before they cut off her head so she hardly counts.”

Jane suppressed a wince at the reference to beheading. It was not a topic she could consider with any degree of insouciance. “Your daughters must be too small to learn history,” she said firmly. The daughters of so young a man had be little more than infants. It wouldn’t stretch her abilities to teach them what they needed to know.

“I am thankful to say I have no daughters, nor any other progeny to the best of my knowledge. I am also blissfully unwed. You mean my half-sisters.”

Not so good. “How old are my charges?”

“Your charges?” He said, raising an eyebrow at her presumption of employment. “I’m not entirely sure. I’m sure they’ll tell you, if you take the job. And yes, Miss Grey, I am a most unnatural brother for not knowing such details, but my half-sisters, whom I barely know, have only recently been deposited in my care by our mutual mother. I believe they are old enough to study history and any number of other useful topics.”

“More useful than history. Languages, deportment . . .”

The duke interrupted the recitation of her major assets as a governess, luckily since it was about to come to a rapid halt for lack of material. “Before we discuss your doubtless unimpeachable qualifications, tell me about yourself. There is something in your voice, an intonation more than an accent, that is not quite English.”

Jane expected the question and had an explanation for her slightly less than flawless English. “I come from Saint Lucia in the West Indies. The island has been passed between the English and the French so often that we are a mixture of both nations.”

“I see. And which nation owns it now?”

Experience had taught Jane when in a tight spot to tell the truth whenever possible but always to have a story ready and to lie with conviction.

“France.” She crossed her fingers behind her back, not sure about the current ownership of an obscure island she’d never visited, only read about in the
Gazette Nationale
. It had seemed ideal for her purposes and she gambled that Denford was equally ignorant of Saint Lucia’s present status. “I was employed as governess by an English official and decided to leave with the family when they were called back to London. But now Mr. Johnson has been posted to America and I preferred to remain here. I have a letter of recommendation written by Mrs. Johnson.”