My Lady Notorious (20 page)

Humor or hysteria bubbled up in Chastity and she collapsed,
giggling, on the big, rumpled bed. When she gained control he was
leaning on a corner-post smiling at her, but strangely.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s all so ridiculous.”

“It is, isn’t it?” He turned away to look around. “If I’m not
mistaken, this is Heather’s own room. He said we should suit ourselves,
so we have.” He flung down his portmanteau and pulled out his blue
suit, brushing it off ruefully. “Jerome would have a fit to see me in
such a rag, but in this company no one will care.”

“No,” said Chastity, proud of her careless tone. “It’ll doubtless be ripped off you in minutes.”

He flashed her a look but merely said, “More than likely. The
harpies will be after fresh blood. They’d just love to get at you. Are
you sure you don’t want to take this occasion to expand your education,
lad?”

Chastity put her hands behind her head. “Hardly. It’s fertile ground for the pox.”

“Not so naive, after all,” he remarked. “The whores will at least
have been guaranteed clean before they came here, though whether
they’ll be that way when they leave…”

He shrugged and stripped out of his uniform, down to shirt and drawers.

“And what about the ladies?” Chastity asked, determined not to let his body distract her from her resolve.

“What about them?”

“The masked women aren’t whores, are they?”

“Depends on your definition of a whore.” He fastened the velvet
breeches and put on the brocade waistcoat, smoothing it down to his
thighs.

Chastity found herself distracted after all by the lithe length of
him. Tears pricked at her eyes; she couldn’t for the life of her think
why she was so miserable. There was Fort, of course, a complication
she’d not looked for. But he frightened her; he didn’t make her heart
ache.

It was Cyn who was doing that. He slipped into his coat and checked
himself in the long mirror to see whether he’d please one of those
whores below. Chastity supposed she could stand up and reveal that she
was a woman too, but much good that would do her. In this house there
were beauties to suit any taste, highborn and low, all willing and
available. Chastity Ware was nothing but a freak.

Cyn knotted a soft, lacy cravat around his neck and fixed it with
his sapphire pin. He nodded at his reflection. “‘Twill do, I think.”

He went to the dressing table and tidied his hair, borrowing a wide
blue ribbon for his bow. He smoothed out the lace at wrists and throat,
then inspected Heatherington’s pots and boxes.

He brushed on pale powder to give his face a fashionable pallor. He
flicked open a patch-box and quirked a brow at Chastity. “Do you think?”

He was turning into a new creature—not hey-go-mad adventurer, not soldier, but Society creature.

“Not without powder in your hair,” said Chastity coldly.

He sighed. “Doubtless you’re right, and powdering’s so messy.
Besides being the very devil to get out.” He sniffed Heatherington’s
perfumes, and shook one that pleased him onto an embroidered,
lace-edged handkerchief, then tucked it through a buttonhole. He put on
his black shoes with high red heels and bowed to her with a flourish.
“Will I do?”

Chastity swallowed. He was gorgeous. “Will anyone look before they tear your clothes off?”

He smiled slightly. “Probably not, but one has one’s standards.”

He checked the adjoining door and turned the key in the lock. “In
fact, I don’t intend to become embroiled. For one thing, we both need
our sleep before tomorrow’s adventure. For another, I’ve no intention
of risking the pox. But I’ll have to be seen for a while. I’ll try to
have a word with Toby and discover how the hunt is going. I’ll return
as soon as I can.” He halted at the door to the corridor. “Lock the
door and keep it locked to all except me.” He looked sharply at her.
“Yes?”

Chastity raised her chin. “Yes. I assure you I have no desire to share this bed.”

“And yet there is only one, my dear Charles. I fear you’ll have to share it with me.”

Chastity had overlooked this obvious point. “I’ll sleep on the floor then.”

He smiled lazily. “I’d be offended, stripling. It’s a large bed and I don’t have lice.”

“It is a foible of mine, Lord Cyn. I sleep alone.”

“We’ll see.” With that he was gone.

Chastity flew to the door and locked it. Perhaps she wouldn’t even open it to him.

Reaction set in and she pressed her hands to her face. How the devil had she come to such a pass?

Cyn waited until he heard the lock click. At least she’d obeyed him
thus far, but he placed little reliance on her doing so forever. He
smiled and shook his head. Lord, she had courage, but it was being
severely tried. Would she break before he could end this charade and
protect her properly?

A roar from below stairs spoke of some mighty achievement. He didn’t
care to speculate what. If he’d had any idea what kind of affair this
was, he would have made an excuse to stay at the Angel.

Still, he felt he could relax now he had his damsel tucked safely
away. He could relax too in the knowledge that no matter what had
happened in the spring, she was an innocent in any way that mattered.
Her reaction to this place told him that.

He wished he didn’t have to leave her. Any woman here, no matter how
beautiful, held no appeal beside the fascination of his damsel. He just
wanted to be done with this adventure so he could force the truth from
her and plan their future. He made his way downstairs to mingle,
anticipating the moment when he could return to Chastity and sanity.

Chastity wandered the bedroom restlessly. She could just imagine Cyn
in the arms of one of those harpies— being groped, slobbered over, and
stripped to satisfy a whore’s lust. She found her hands were fists. It
wasn’t fair! Once she’d been beautiful and he wouldn’t have left her so
easily.

She pulled off her wig and stood in front of the mirror. A freak. A
hard-faced, bitter freak in breeches. Frantically she stripped off her
male clothing and unwound the bindings around her breasts. Soon she was
naked.

She gave a shuddering sigh.

She ran her hands down her body. It wasn’t a bad body. She knew she
wasn’t a crowning beauty like Nerissa Trelyn, but her body wasn’t at
all bad. Nerissa Trelyn, though, had glossy pale-blonde curls. She had
big cow-eyes with lashes thicker than Cyn’s. She had breasts like
melons, though Polite Society described them as a handsome bosom…

Chastity’s hands stilled. Nerissa Trelyn: daughter of the Bishop of
Peterborough; wife of Lord Trelyn, image of propriety; Toast of London
and social arbiter; one of the people who had seen Chastity in bed with
Henry Vernham and condemned her.

Nerissa Trelyn was Heatherington’s seducer!

Chastity looked vaguely around. She picked up a brown satin
dressing-gown and slipped it on. She curled up in a big chair by the
fire and poured herself a glass of wine from a decanter there.

Could she be mistaken? she wondered as she sipped. It scarcely
seemed believable and yet she was sure, mainly because of the
distinctive, mellow voice. She wore a red wig over her blonde hair, but
it was she. The great Lady Trelyn was here playing the whore.

Could she have recognized Chastity?

No, she’d definitely had her eyes and mind on other matters.

On the whole, Chastity wasn’t surprised that Nerissa Trelyn had
lovers; the world knew she’d married Lord Trelyn for his money, and he
appeared to be a cold, dry man.

But for her to be in such a place…

And she’d had the gall to condemn Chastity Ware!

How many more were here? How many more hypocrites?

Chastity drained the glass and stood. She had to find out. She began
to drag on her clothes again but paused. Her brother Fort. If she
bumped into him, he’d know her.

She needed to be masked. But only the women were masked. If she
dressed as a woman, with wig and mask, surely no one would recognize
her. Chastity had recognized Nerissa Trelyn by her voice and so would
be careful to disguise her own.

She hovered uncertainly. She wanted, quite desperately, to stay safe
in his room. But she wanted, just as desperately, to confirm the
unbelievable—that Nerissa Trelyn was reveling below stairs—because if
it were so, there might be some way to use the information to help her
own situation.

She’d do it. Just a brief and cautious foray.

Chastity flung open the doors of Lord Heatherington’s armoire, but
found it contained only men’s clothing. She beat her hands together in
frustration. She could doubtless assemble a female costume from the
bits of clothing lying around this house, but she didn’t dare go
searching.

The adjoining room. She’d go odds it belonged to a woman.

In a moment she’d turned the lock and was in. Yes! Clearly a woman’s
room. Now, would the clothes fit? A glance in the armoire told her they
would—not perfectly, but well enough.

She couldn’t suppress a laugh of delight at the selection of pretty
gowns before her. It had been so long since she’d seen such delicious
confections. She threw off the dressing-gown and pulled on a sheer
white silk chemise with elbow-length sleeves edged with a double layer
of foaming lace. She shivered with pleasure as it slithered over her
skin, a mere veil over her body, not substantial at all.

Next, she chose a padded petticoat of white satin trimmed with
yellow ribbon. She stepped into it and tied the laces at her waist. A
brocade stomacher went on top, its V front coming down over the
waistband of the petticoat. She had some trouble tying the laces in the
back, but there was no question of summoning a servant and so she did
the best she could, smiling at the memory of dressing Cyn, sighing at
the thought of what it would be like to be dressed, or undressed, by
him.

She pushed such thoughts aside.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The stomacher barely covered
her nipples and pushed up the fullness of her breasts. Their swelling
was only covered by the filmy chemise. She’d never worn such a bold
bodice before, but she liked it. After her long, arid masquerade it
felt so wonderful to be a woman again.

She took down an open gown of yellow-and-brown-striped silk and put
it on, hooking it to the stomacher at the sides of the waist. Above and
below it spread open to show both petticoat and stomacher. The
elbow-length sleeves showed the lacy frill of the chemise.

She twirled, laughing for the pleasure of fine things, for the
rustling, slithering feel of silk. The skirts hung rather limp and
would be better for hoops, but if the lady who owned all this had hoops
she was wearing them. The padding of the petticoat gave some fullness,
and Chastity was clearly a little taller than the true owner, for the
skirts did not trail.

It occurred to her that this could be Nerissa Trelyn’s room. She
sought for clues but found nothing to confirm her suspicions.
Suppressing her conscience, she searched thoroughly. Nothing in any of
the drawers.

Then she found a small ivory box. In it were two letters, two heated
love letters. She sighed with frustration. They were probably from Lord
Heatherington but were addressed to Desiree. The name meant nothing,
for fashion dictated that a man address his beloved by a fanciful name.
Chastity had been Bella to one suitor and Clorinda to another.

But then she wondered whether Heatherington kept
his
love letters.

She hurried to search his room. After unsuccessfully checking boxes
and drawers—the sort of places where a lady would carefully store her
billets doux
—she at last found one stuffed carelessly into a jacket pocket.

The lady’s style was more flowery, but no less outrageous. It made
Chastity blush to read such a lustful communication. The note was
addressed to Hercules and signed Desiree, but must surely be in the
writer’s own hand. It was hardly the kind of letter one would dictate
to a secretary. Would the writing prove to be that of Lady Trelyn?

Chastity placed the letter carefully in the waistcoat pocket of her
suit. She was more anxious than ever to continue her investigation, to
seek a firm identification of Nerissa, and detect any other hypocrites
cavorting below.

But she needed a wig, and there was none. For a moment she thought
she would have to abandon her adventure, and was aware of guilty
relief, but then she remembered the black wig Cyn had bought from Mrs.
Crupley. Was it still in his portmanteau?

She found it was. It was a poor specimen of coarse black horsehair,
but she thought it would do for this occasion. She dragged a comb
through it to tame it, then dusted the curls with the powder in the
lady’s room—a rather unpleasant pink, perfumed with roses. Chastity
coughed as the stuff billowed around her.

It worked, however. When she put the mass of curls on her head, the
powder softened the unlikely dense black, and made the effect quite
pleasing.

Chastity made free with the lady’s dressing table. A rabbit’s foot
dipped in rouge gave extra color to her cheeks, and a finger in a pot
produced cream rouge for the lips. She dusted her face with white
powder, and affixed a black velvet heart by her mouth—an invitation to
a kiss.

Chastity assessed herself in the mirror with satisfaction. A fine
lady stood there, ready for a ball or for court, though perhaps a
little over-painted for the latter. She looked older and bolder than
herself. For sure, Toby Berrisford wouldn’t recognize a certain youth,
and Fort wouldn’t recognize his sister. Chastity Ware had always
dressed demurely, as befitted a well-brought-up young lady in search of
a husband.

And she looked good. Her waist was trim, her shoulders smooth and
white, and if her breasts lacked the mass of cantaloupes, they were
still shown to advantage by the low bodice.