Lord of Deceit (Heiress Games Book 2) (3 page)

That was why he was out every night, attending parties he didn’t care about. Almost everyone, including his siblings, thought he’d sold his commission the year before, but Whitehall still needed him — there were very few officers in the intelligence corps who could gain entry to the highest parties and social clubs. Rafe kept an eye on foreign diplomats and French exiles in London, spreading disinformation and gathering secrets, without anyone being the wiser. He played the charming, idle aristocrat who had sold his commission to pursue a life of pleasure.

And he chafed against it all. At least Somerville gave him a mission that felt more immediately useful. But it was the very nature of the group he worked with in Whitehall to know everything that happened in Britain and abroad. If he wanted to destroy Somerville without them finding out, he couldn’t be obvious about it.

Octavia grinned as though she somehow knew that his comment about lying was the most truthful thing he had said so far. “Shall you give me a lie and a truth and have me guess which is which?”

This was the kind of flirtation he needed to encourage — fun and meaningless now, but it would lead to gaining her trust. “Will you give me the same honor?”

“If you would find it entertaining,” she said. “But I assure you, I am a terrible liar.”

He let the brandy touch his lips again. “I shall be the judge of that. Do you care to start?”

Octavia shook her head. “I proposed the game, so it is your turn.”

“That doesn’t sound like any rule I’ve heard of.”

“You may discover that I do not follow rules very well, my lord.”

She said it with the right mix of insouciance — exactly how a courtesan would say such a thing. But for the first time that night, he detected a hint of misdirection.

“A truth and a lie?” he asked. “Do you care to wager on it?”

“Your money doesn’t interest me, my lord. Somerville sees to me well enough.”

If she meant it as a warning, it was perfectly done — opaque enough that he couldn’t take offense, but direct enough to make the boundaries between them clear. “Good. I always feel like a cad after I outplay a woman.”

She grinned. “I am not so easy to outwit.”

Again, her directness was refreshing. Most women in her position would have flirted, or at least made herself seem less intelligent than the men around them. But Octavia had made it clear that she had no interest in taking him to bed and no reason to let him feel impressive.

The fact that he found her refreshing might be a problem. But he would consider that problem later. “A truth and a lie, you say?”

She sipped her champagne, watching him over the rim of her glass. “Unless you have changed your mind about sharing a secret.”

He couldn’t tell her anything truly secret — not about his current mission against Somerville, nor about his efforts during the war. “Very well. One fact, which may be true or false, is that I wish to secure Somerville’s support to install me in one of his pocket boroughs during the next election for the House of Commons. And the other fact is that I am utterly enamored with you.”

He hadn’t planned either statement. When he was in danger, he always found it better to trust his instincts rather than appearing to think things through — the longer he took to think, the more time his quarry had to wonder if he was lying.

He probably shouldn’t have said anything about being enamored with her — it was a dicey ploy at best. Especially since the other “fact,” about pursuing a political career, was definitely a lie. But it would test whether she was susceptible to seduction, or whether he would have to try a different tactic.

Octavia’s mouth dropped open a bit. But she was a consummate lady, despite her reputation, and she recovered immediately. “You would make me choose between whether you want me and whether you need Somerville?” Her voice was still light, but there was an edge to it. “That’s hardly a contest.”

“Do men often come to you because of Somerville?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course. I already suspected that that is why you’re here. Somerville controls dozens of seats in the Commons. His friends have positions open for vicars, secretaries, land agents, and other jobs. Half the men who talked to me before you arrived were attempting to curry my favor for just such an opportunity.”

Interesting — she didn’t like being curried for Somerville’s favor. He filed that fact away. “So you guess that Somerville is the truth, and my desire for you is the lie?”

She scanned his face. This time, the appraisal wasn’t meant to throw him off his guard — it seemed that the answer to that question was deeply important to her and she didn’t want to get it wrong.

“You must be here for Somerville,” she decided. “You and I have only met once. The rumor mill has it that you don’t take mistresses. You can’t possibly be here for me.”

“Why would the rumor mill be talking about my preferences?”

“You are young, titled, and still in possession of all of your limbs despite the war. Per society’s expectations, if you don’t have a mistress, you must be in want of a wife.”

“So says you and every other woman who has read
Pride and Prejudice
this year,” he retorted. “My sisters cannot stop quoting that line to me. Although I will say that this is the first time I’ve heard that being in possession of all of my limbs is my finest quality.”

Octavia grinned. “Your hair and teeth are quite satisfactory as well.”

“Are you hosting a salon or running a stud farm?”

It was the kind of thing he never could have said to a lady. If Octavia were still the lady she had been four years before, she should have cut him after he said that. But she didn’t take offense. “There have been no marriages made at my salons, for rather obvious reasons,” she said drily. “Whether other liaisons have occurred is, of course, not something I shall comment upon.”

Her parties were notorious only because Octavia hosted them. From what Rafe had heard, most of the activities in her house could have occurred in any gentlewoman’s home, although the men were free to discuss politics without having to accommodate the conversations of the fairer sex.

If she had been a garden-variety courtesan, he might have considered buying her loyalty from Somerville. He had an inheritance in his own right from his mother’s estate, which had gone to him alone rather than his siblings — the old duke’s will, which controlled the assets he’d stripped from his wife when he had sent her into exile, had cut the younger children completely out of inheriting her properties. They were dependent on Thorington’s fortune, but Rafe could afford a reasonably lavish life if that was what he wanted. And he could afford to keep a courtesan, at least long enough to learn her secrets.

But Rafe had the instincts of a spy, and he knew what he was dealing with. Octavia was the loyal sort. She couldn’t be bought — not without far more money than Rafe was willing to spend on the enterprise.

That left him only a handful of options. He could attempt to win her friendship, and thus gain her confidence. That would take time — more time than he likely had. His superiors at Whitehall would eventually catch on if he courted Octavia. She had nothing to do with any of the foreign embassies. He should have taken a mistress from among the German or Austrian delegations if he was focused on what Whitehall had asked of him.

Or he could trick her into divulging Somerville’s secrets. But the sharp look in her eyes as she perused him said that she would rarely make such a mistake.

Or he could seduce her.

It was his tactic of last resort — he much preferred to buy information. But women made mistakes when they believed themselves to be in love. Octavia was fair game — she was experienced enough to know the rules, and any association with him wouldn’t ruin her. The only challenge would be extricating himself at the end. After all, he couldn’t pretend to die in battle to get away from her.

He would consider his options later. “I am impressed by your fine sentiments, Madame Octavia. Not many hostesses would miss the opportunity to spread gossip about their guests.”

“Gossip has its place. I make it a habit to know what happens beyond me. There is safety in information, as you no doubt know.”

She paused, but Rafe sensed the quality of that silence. He waited as she toyed with the stem of her champagne glass. His patience was eventually rewarded. “But no, Lord Rafael. I do not make it a practice to gossip about my guests. Political gossip, perhaps. But the usual topics of who has shared a bed with whom, and who is ruinously in debt, and who has destroyed her reputation — those
on dits
don’t appeal to me.”

There was a tightness around her mouth that didn’t disappear, even after she took another sip of champagne.

He felt a flash of sympathy for her. He could manage sympathy — he’d often felt it in Spain and never let it distract him. But there was something else under the sympathy. Something that, perhaps, felt like a bit of connection with her — with this ruined woman whose life had been destroyed by gossip, but who wouldn’t let the ton defeat her.

It made his mission harder, though. If she wouldn’t gossip about her guests, she would never gossip about Somerville. The chances that he could trick her into revealing anything were slim.

That only left seduction.

“You didn’t give me your truth and your lie,” he said.

The abrupt shift in conversation didn’t startle her. If anything, she looked relieved to leave the subject of gossip behind. “No, I did not,” she said. “Can I say that my truth is that I’d hoped you would forget?”

Rafe laughed. “You can say that, but it would be unsporting. I wouldn’t have thought you would turn away from a dare.”

“I never do.” She leaned back in her chair, indolent and entirely self-possessed. Her diamonds gleamed and her rich dress rustled around her, but it was her smile that looked dangerous — as though, for a moment, she was the one who sought knowledge, and he was the unwitting prey.

Was he considering seduction because it was the obvious next course of action for his mission? Or was it because he
wanted
it to be?

She tapped her chin, pretending to consider. “My life has no secrets, Lord Rafael. The gossip sheets print them all as soon as they happen. I’m sure you’ve seen the caricatures.”

Only years of training kept him from shifting uncomfortably at the unexpected mention of what he’d commissioned to be drawn about her — not that she knew he was the one who’d ordered them. “Humor me, Madame Octavia. There must be some secret I cannot guess.”

She thought for another few moments. He realized suddenly that he had stopped noticing the rest of the room. Usually he registered other sounds and sights around him — he was never entirely off guard. But Octavia had captured all of his attention.

And she could hold it. She leaned forward. He mirrored her, looking for all the world like they were engaged in the most intimate
tête-à-tête
.

“My truth and my lie, Lord Rafael, are simple. The first fact is that I am a courtesan because I wish to be, not only because I was ruined.”

If it were another unmarried lady, he might have doubted it. But Octavia belonged in this
milieu
— or, at least, her boldness and her straightforward gaze were more suited for this life, and not the muted, constrained prison of Mayfair’s more polite drawing rooms.

“And your lie?” he drawled.

“Are you so sure that my first ‘fact’ is true?” she asked, seeming disappointed.

He nodded. “But I would hear the alternative.”

She drained her champagne, then looked him dead in the eye. “The other fact is that I am utterly enamored with you.”

“
I
beg your pardon
?” Lord Rafael said.

Octavia didn’t know why she’d said it. She hadn’t been able to think of anything else for her lie. And she said it without blushing or hesitating — the way a courtesan would be expected to say it.

The fact that Octavia
wasn’t
the courtesan everyone thought her to be was a far more delicious — and unbelievable — secret. But that was Somerville’s secret as much as it was hers, and she’d take it to the grave.

She held his gaze for another few seconds, then leaned back in her chair again. Lord Rafael looked stunned. She gestured for a footman and asked for more champagne and brandy. Only after their glasses were filled did she say, “I am enamored, Lord Rafael. If I had known that you felt the same, I would have insisted on making your acquaintance months ago.”

It was all a lie, of course. Or, at least, more of a lie than the other fact she had given him. She hadn’t thought of their initial meeting in Hyde Park more than once every day or so. And she hadn’t specifically sought out gossip about him — although she had made note of everything she heard.

Octavia only knew him by reputation. Everyone knew that he drank far too much. But unlike most drunkards, he never embarrassed himself or lost at cards. He had been mentioned favorably several times in the dispatches from Spain, but he had abruptly returned to England and sold his commission the previous year. No one quite seemed to know how he occupied himself, or who his friends were, or why he was in London — and yet they all agreed that he was the most charming, friendly gentleman in their acquaintance.

Odd, to be known as friendly and yet not have any close friends. Her time with Somerville had trained her to pay attention to these details — to understand how the currents flowed through the ton, who moved with the waves and who was a rock that everyone else broke around. Knowledge, after all, was power. And power was something Octavia could no longer go without.

So when Lord Rafael had walked into Somerville’s drawing room as though he belonged there, despite never having accepted an invitation before, Octavia had resolved to find out why.

But she hadn’t expected to flirt with him.

Or for that flirtation to feel real.

He regarded her now, not touching his brandy even though he was rumored to live on the stuff. Finally, he said, “If you are enamored with me, your taste is less exquisite than I had heard.”

“Seeking a compliment, my lord?” she said. “I already praised your limbs and your teeth — it would be unseemly to praise you more extravagantly.”

Lord Rafael laughed, breaking a bit of the tension that had sprung up between them after her declaration. “No compliments necessary, Madame Octavia. Especially if you can only note the obvious. I had hoped you would fancy my perfectly-tied cravat, but if limbs are your preference, so be it.”

His cravat
was
perfectly tied. “You must come to stay with us in Devonshire this summer, then. I’m sure Somerville would pay your valet handsomely to teach his valet those tricks.”

It was an impulsive invitation — but again, she was intrigued by him, and wanted to see how he would react. Somerville always returned to his Devonshire estate in July. She hosted house parties for him there, but with few women in attendance, she mostly used her summers to gain a bit of peace from the social whirl.

And sometimes, when she had a day to herself, she would ride over to Maidenstone. Not that she ever went to the abbey. She hadn’t spoken to Lucy since becoming Somerville’s mistress four years earlier. But Octavia could visit Julian’s grave, and now her grandfather’s, without Lucy ever knowing she was there.

Lord Rafael’s gaze sharpened. “Will you be at the Maidenstone party in August? I confess I didn’t know whether you would attend.”

The Maidenstone party.
It was all London had talked about since invitations were sent the week before.

Octavia hadn’t received one.

“It’s not how I would prefer to spend my summer,” she said, evading. “Somerville’s estate is also in Devonshire.”

Beyond Lord Rafael, other guests slowly circled closer to her. She rarely talked to any man alone for this long. Some guests could stay only twenty minutes before moving on to the next entertainment of the evening — they would want to court her favor before leaving. She should send Lord Rafael on his way and return to her party.

But that was an excuse, even though it was a good one. She didn’t want to talk about the Maidenstone party. After all, it wasn’t just a party. Her grandfather had died the previous year. There was no heir to the title, despite the fact that he’d remarried — with a girl younger than Octavia — and attempted to make one. His will had stipulated that whichever remaining Briarley granddaughter made the best marriage by the end of the year after his death would win Maidenstone Abbey.

That meant Octavia, Lucy, and their American cousin, Callista, were all in competition with each other. It was a very Briarley way of solving the problem, although Octavia would have preferred sabers.

The party, nominally hosted by her grandfather’s widow but organized by the estate executor, was intended to provide the remaining heiresses with a chance to find husbands. From what she’d heard as gossip had swirled through the ton, the most eligible bachelors of the day had been invited.

And the fact that Octavia
wasn’t
invited meant she couldn’t possibly hope to win the estate.

It was supremely unfair. She had maintained good relations with her grandfather even after the scandal. Perhaps
especially
after the scandal. The old earl delighted in Briarleys behaving badly — so much so that Octavia had hoped he might leave the estate to her.

But by putting the choice in the hands of an estate executor — the Duke of Rothwell, their second cousin on their grandmother’s side — her grandfather had almost certainly doomed her. From what she’d heard, the party was two months away. There was still a chance she might receive an invitation. But few men would let a woman with her reputation inherit anything at all. And she had never met Rothwell in London — if he didn’t wish to associate with her, he surely wouldn’t let her inherit.

She didn’t know, yet, what to do about the party. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. But competing for Maidenstone would mean seeing Lucy again — and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

Lord Rafael’s eyes were still sharp — he knew there was something she wasn’t saying. But he let the subject drop. “There are still several weeks of the season left. I hope we may see each other in London before we’re reduced to the crushing boredom of Devonshire. Would you care to accompany me for a ride in the park? Perhaps in two days?”

He seemed to be asking her for her own sake, not because he wanted access to Somerville. That was a boundary she had never crossed before. She never showed favor to any other men, or encouraged them to see her as anything other than Somerville’s mistress.

And that made Lord Rafael dangerous. But his grey eyes gleamed with humor — good humor, not malicious humor. She wondered whether it would be so bad to go to the park with him. Somerville wouldn’t stop her — their arrangement was purely for companionship, not sex. It was her own morality, twisted though it may have seemed, that kept her from pursuing other liaisons. And, of course, the knowledge that kissing had ruined her once before — it could easily change her life again, and likely not for the better.

She wasn’t eighteen anymore. She was Madame Octavia, not Miss Ava Briarley. There would be no more illicit kisses in moonlit gardens — no chance to see whether a kiss could turn into love, the way she had always dreamed of.

Which is not to say that she didn’t want kisses. But love made fools of women and men both — and women often paid a higher price for momentary insanity.

She smiled, ready to thank him and send him on his way. No kiss was worth losing the security of her current situation.

He surprised her. “Don’t say no to me yet,” he said. “Say no to me in the park, when I ask you if you would like to go to the opera with me the following night.”

Octavia laughed in spite of herself. “If we are both so enamored as we claimed, this is not a wise liaison to encourage. And I should see to my other guests.”

He stood, holding his still-full glass of brandy. And then he surprised her again by extending his other hand. She offered hers, instinctively, and he bowed over it. “It was a pleasure to renew our acquaintance, Madame Octavia.”

Then he brushed his lips over her knuckles. It was entirely proper, entirely unremarkable.

And yet….

She wore gloves, but she suddenly wished that she could strip them off. Or perhaps that he would strip them off — let her feel his skin against hers as her fingers curled within his grip. He kissed her hand, but he looked into her eyes.

She knew he was charming. Charm like that could hide all sorts of secrets. But in that single moment, she thought she saw something more than charm. Not love — she wasn’t stupid enough to believe it was love. And not exactly lust, either. She’d seen that often enough. He didn’t look at her the way a man looked at a woman whom he believed would fall easily into his bed.

No — it was curiosity, and intrigue, and some moment of shared connection. Nothing stronger than that — and yet, was there anything better than a moment when the rest of the world fell away and the only two people left within it were entranced by each other?

Her breath caught.

He dropped her hand, slowly, and gave her a rueful smile. “You were right. This may not be wise.”

It wasn’t wise. Her life with Somerville was safe.

Lord Rafael couldn’t replace that.

But she had never wanted to make a mistake more than she wanted to make this one.

“I cannot go riding with you, my lord,” she said. “But you may call on me next week and try to convince me.”

For one swift moment, so fast that she later told herself she hadn’t seen it, she thought she saw triumph in his gaze. But then that rueful smile was back. “I shall have to think of something better than opera tickets to tempt you with. Until then, Madame Octavia.”

She nodded. He left, and she forced herself not to watch as he walked toward the card room. She smiled instead at the men who hovered beyond him, inviting them into her circle again. Somerville wanted her to gauge the reaction his peers were having to his latest speeches in Parliament. She couldn’t do that while talking to someone like Lord Rafael, who didn’t have a vote and so wasn’t there to hear them.

But that didn’t mean she forgot about him. She had lost Maidenstone. She had lost Lucy. She had lost Julian, and her grandfather, and her parents, and everyone else who had ever mattered. She perhaps should have been more concerned about losing Somerville as well — there wasn’t any passion between them, but he gave her everything else that she needed.

Money and security should have been enough. But when another man kissed her hand later in the evening, she wished he hadn’t, so that the memory of Lord Rafael’s lips wasn’t overlaid by his. And when Somerville smiled at her from across the room, with that distant, vaguely worried air he’d been giving her for weeks, she sighed.

Money and security should have been enough.

But nothing was ever enough. She was still Octavia Briarley, still ruined. The ruin she'd brought upon herself, in a single misjudged moment, with a single kiss, was something she couldn't escape. No one in England would ever forget it.

They might have forgiven her, eventually. If she had done what they expected her to do — if she had gone to the country, and worn her shame like a cloak around her — they might have let her marry. Someone desperate, of course — some man who needed a wife with a decent dowry and didn't mind the whispers about her. Someone who would have spent their entire marriage reminding her that she didn’t deserve him.

She hadn't taken the shame they wanted to give her, though. She'd taken her anger instead, using it to stiffen her backbone so she wouldn't bend under the gossip. And the people who would have forgiven her if she'd been meek seemed to hate her more because she was strong.

She
was
strong. But there were no paths forward that would bring her joy.

She would let Lord Rafael down gently, before anything disastrous happened. She couldn’t afford to lose Somerville’s protection.

But her heart — her daring, reckless Briarley heart — wanted more.