Mary Jo Putney (11 page)

Diana felt compunction when she saw the fatigue on her friend's face. In spite of her restored health, Maddy was no longer young, she had been very ill, and this return to her old life must be a strain even without her concern for her protégée. Sitting Madeline down, Diana poured a glass of sherry for her, then pulled the pins from her friend's dark hair and began brushing it out.

When Madeline was more comfortable, Diana asked again, "Why would Lord St. Aubyn be such a poor choice for a lover?"

"Because of the kind of man he is: cold and unloving. Even if he is not a spy and never had a wife, he is unlikely to make you happy." Madeline sighed and closed her eyes. "You will allow that I know more about men and love than you do?"

"Of course I will admit that." Diana unfastened Maddy's dress, then helped her into a soft red wrapper. With a sigh of relaxation, the older woman curled up in the chair while Diana poured a glass of sherry for herself, then sat on the sofa opposite Madeline and began to unpin her own hair. "Now, tell me, why does St. Aubyn disturb you so much?"

Maddy absently twisted the stem of her sherry glass. "My strongest objection to your entering this life is that you are too emotional, too loving. I doubt your ability to let your head rule your heart where a lover is concerned. A successful courtesan must have some detachment. The worst thing she can do is to fall in love with her protector." With a crooked smile she added, "I did that. I can't recommend it."

Diana gazed into the amber wine. "Can love ever be wrong?"

Madeline shrugged wearily. "It may not be wrong, but it is often painful. It won't keep you warm and comfortable in your later years when your lover has discarded you for a younger woman or retired to live piously with his wellborn wife."

Diana had always suspected that something more than illness had driven Madeline from London two years ago. She said with gentle compassion, "I'm sorry. Is that what happened to you?"

Madeline was silent for so long that Diana thought she would not answer. Finally she said, "Not really. Nicolas was my last protector, for over seven years. His evil-tempered wife lived in the country so we were able to spend much of our time together in London. He was the one who bought this house for me, and he was here more often than in his own home."

She sipped her sherry, lost in her memories. Then she said bleakly, "He wanted to marry me. Isn't that droll?"

"Not in the least," Diana answered quietly, drawing her fingers through her long tresses to loosen the snarls. "You are lovely and kind, a desirable wife for any man."

The candlelight caught a gleam of tears in Madeline's eyes. "It is not quite unknown for a man like him to marry a woman like me. After all, Emma Harte became the British ambassadress to Sicily by marrying Sir William Hamilton, and she was no better born or behaved than I. Society's high sticklers might have cut Nicolas and me, but that wouldn't have bothered either of us."

Her face tightened. "But Nicolas was not free to marry. His wife was far too cold a woman to be guilty of misconduct, so there was no possibility of divorce. Still, we were happy until his wife decided to end his relationship with me, threatening to ruin him with his family and their children.

"He was badly torn. He did not want to give me up, but everything in his life was being weighed on the other side of the scales." She rotated the fragile stem of her sherry glass between stiff fingers. "I have wondered if my grief at the situation had something to do with my illness. I have seen it before, how unhappiness leads to bad health." Lifting the glass, she drained it, and Diana silently rose and poured more.

In a stronger voice Madeline said, "I left London, partly so that he would no longer have to choose between me and the rest of his life, partly so that he wouldn't have to see me die. You know the rest."

"I see." Diana was silent for a moment. "Is your Nicolas still in London?"

Madeline shook her head. "No, that is the first thing I inquired about once we arrived here. He is living entirely at his estate in the country now. I would not be going out in public if there were any chance of meeting him." With sad finality she whispered, "I couldn't bear to see him again. Nothing has changed. Or at least, I haven't. Perhaps he has. I hope so. It would be easier for him if he no longer loves me."

Diana's face reflected her compassion. It was typical of the older woman's generous spirit that she wished her lover free of the sorrow that she herself still suffered.

Maddy sighed. "Do you understand better why a courtesan shouldn't fall in love with her protector? There may be moments of joy, but those are few compared to the pain. There are so many ways in which a grand passion can be disastrous, and almost none in which it can bring happiness. It is far better to have a protector who is a friend, or one whom you love only a little."

"If St. Aubyn is as cold as you believe, do you really think I could fall in love with him?"

"I think you will fall in love with any man you choose as your lover," Madeline said bluntly. "It is a bad habit women have, and you are more vulnerable than most. You yourself don't know how much you are crying out to be loved, and to love back."

"But I have a great deal of love in my life... Geoffrey, Edith, you," Diana stated with maddening calm. "Why are you so sure I will fall headlong for a man just because we are lovers?"

"Sexual love is very different from love for a child or a friend. No matter how powerful those other loves are, they don't fill the basic need of a woman to have a man." Madeline leaned forward a little, her voice earnest. "Please, trust my judgment on this and don't become involved with St. Aubyn. Choose a man like Lord Ridgley. He isn't half so handsome, but he will adore you. Or that lovely boy Clinton, who will write poems to your eyebrows. Even if there is pain at the end, it won't be devastating and you will have some happy memories of the affair."

She shook her head wearily. "I've known men like St. Aubyn. Certainly he is attractive and can afford to pay generously for the privilege of keeping you. He may even provide pleasure in bed. But he will give you little kindness, and less love."

Diana drew her knees up on the sofa and linked her arms around them, leaning her head forward. Her voice low, she said, "I'm sorry, Maddy. I daresay you are right, but... this is something I must do."

"Good God, Diana,
why?"
Madeline exclaimed. "Whenever something really important is at issue, you just look mysterious and say that it is something you
must
do. We are supposed to be friends, yet I have no more idea what is in your mind than if you were a Chinaman. You have intelligence. Why the devil can't you use it?"

Diana's voice was unsteady when she replied. "I'm sorry, I know this is hard for you, and I know that you are doing your best to save me from unnecessary grief."

She stopped, trying to find some way to explain. Eventually she replied, choosing her words carefully, "It isn't a matter of intelligence, you know. I can read the poets and philosophers and talk about them wittily, but that is just the mind.

"Underneath, I am all emotion and instinct, and they are what rule my life. I can no more understand why there are some things that I must do than I can explain why the wind blows. I knew that I must come to London and try the life of a demirep, and I know now that I must see more of Lord St. Aubyn. I'm sorry." Her voice broke and she finished in a whisper, "I would be different if I could be."

Madeline felt the younger woman's unhappiness as sharply as if it was her own. She thought of Diana as the daughter she had always longed for, and knew the grief of all parents who wish to save their children from suffering.

Maddy sighed. Diana was vulnerable, but she was also strong, with her own deep wisdom. She had already survived grief and loss, and doubtless she could survive another unfortunate love affair. Most women had more than one broken heart in their past.

"I'm sorry, my dear, I'm trying to make you wise, when I failed so miserably at it myself. If you must, you must." She smiled, remembering how the Viscount St. Aubyn had reacted to Diana. "Sometimes men like St. Aubyn have fire under the ice. If any woman can find it, it will be you."

"Perhaps," Diana said quietly. "We shall see." Maddy was justified in her charge that she hid the inner workings of her mind. Diana had never been able to talk about what was deepest and closest to her heart. Only when the issue was resolved could she discuss it.

But some things that could be shared. "For what it's worth, after months of pondering I think that now I understand why I was so determined to pursue the life of a courtesan in the first place."

Madeline shifted to a more comfortable position. "Yes?" she asked encouragingly.

"You yourself gave me the idea. When you spoke of the life, it sounded... free, in ways I have never known," Diana said. "And... I didn't want to live the rest of my life without a man. You know how limited the prospects were in Cleveden. In London, there are choices, both in men and way of life, and I found the idea exciting." Her smile flashed mischievously. "I also liked what you said about sex and beauty giving a woman power. I found that most appealing."

"So appealing that you are comfortable exposing your son to this life?"

"You know better than that, Maddy," Diana retorted sharply. Her voice faltered. "That above all concerned me. Success as a courtesan would mean money for his future, perhaps influence if I meet powerful men. He is happier here in his school than he has ever been. With luck I can retire and return to respectability before he is old enough to realize what I am doing."

She could hear the defensiveness in her voice, and she ducked her head to conceal tears. If it hadn't been for Geoffrey, becoming a courtesan would not have been the agonizing decision that it was. Not a day went by when she didn't worry about the possible long-term consequences to her son.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Madeline said apologetically. "I shouldn't have said that, but I can't help worrying about how this will turn out for you and Geoffrey. Come what may, you know I'll always be here to help you put the broken pieces together again."

Diana subsided wearily into the corner of the sofa, suddenly exhausted by the night's events. For better or for worse, forces had been set into motion that could not be recalled. She could only pray that her intuition was not leading her astray.

* * *

Leaving the carriage for his cousin, Gervase chose to walk back to his Curzon Street town house. London at night was not the safest of places, but veterans of the Mahratta Wars were not easily intimidated. As he walked through the cool night air, he wondered why he was reacting so strongly to a pretty face. Francis was right: it was time he took a new mistress.

A pity he could not be free of females entirely, but Gervase needed a regular woman in his life. While temperance in food and drink came naturally to him, his body's other fierce, compelling desires could not be suppressed or ignored. Some men could live comfortably as monks; although the viscount envied them, he was unable to do the same. The deity who had given him so much in the way of worldly goods had also condemned him to a regrettable amount of sexual passion.

In India he had kept a slim native girl with dark almond-shaped eyes and an astonishing sexual repertory. Sananda spoke seldom, waited on him like a servant, and asked nothing for herself. The viscount had supported her and her entire family for years, and left them with enough money to buy two thriving shops. The girl had been properly grateful for his financial generosity, but if she had personal regrets about his departure, she concealed them well.

In many ways, keeping Sananda had been ideal, since she made none of the emotional demands an Englishwoman would. Here in London it would be easy to find a dissatisfied wife of his own class for an affair, but such women required time and effort for wooing, and wanted lying words of love that he had no desire to speak. Gervase disliked the lower grades of prostitutes, both for the possibility of disease and the bleak expression sometimes seen in their eyes, a resignation to pain that reminded him uncomfortably of the pathetic child he had married.

Rationally, he knew he should look for a mistress who was unfashionable and grateful for financial security. He was a fool to waste time on an exotic, expensive ladybird like Diana Lindsay. But as he remembered her sensual body and the flawless face with its deep, beckoning eyes, he acknowledged that one could overdo rationality. What was the point of wealth if he didn't indulge in an occasional frivolous luxury? And he'd never seen a more attractive frivolity than Diana Lindsay.

St. Aubyn House was a dull but imposing pile, far too much space for a single man. Gervase let himself in with his own key. It had taken him months to convince his servants that he often preferred privacy. Eventually he prevailed. A lamp waited on a pier table in the vestibule, and he lifted it.

He was restless, not ready for bed, so he stepped into the drawing room. It was a masterpiece of lofty proportions and rich decoration, a room designed for giants or gods. A coffered and painted Italianate ceiling soared two stories above the giant Oriental carpet that had been custom woven to fit the space, and carved marble fireplaces stood at each end of the room. The graceful furniture had been designed by Robert Adam.

He crossed the drawing room to the book-lined study. This had been his father's particular haunt, and when Gervase had returned from India the faint scent of the late viscount's pipe tobacco had still lingered. Yet there had been no sense of the man himself. It was not surprising, really; even in life, father and son had touched each other only in fleeting and formal ways.