Temporary Mistress (21 page)

"Do you think this is love I feel?"

"That's for you to say. I wouldn't know. But a season would give you an opportunity to decide."

"What if I fail in this bid to be launched."

Molly laughed. "Dear girl, with your looks? Even without a shilling you'd have men falling at your feet. And with your fortune you'll have to beat them off."

"Really… beat them off?" It was a flattering notion to any young woman.

"No doubt of that. Say yes and I'll have a dressmaker in to fit you for a suitable wardrobe."

"Here? Forgive me."

"I have a home on Grosvenor Place as well. The widow, Mrs. Peabody, don't you know," she said, grinning.

"It does sound like a very enticing prospect."

"And you could annoy Dermott in the bargain."

"If that were true, and I'm not entirely sure it is—definitely added incentive. Very well, I'll do it," she quickly said before she lost her nerve.

AFTER STOPPING at his lawyer's office to be briefed on the Leslies, Dermott was currently on his way to Herbert Leslie's office. He was in a foul mood, although he refused to admit the actual reason for his displeasure. He told himself his resentment was directed at the family that had tried to harm a young woman without friends. He told himself his mission was one of benevolence and charity. A chivalrous gesture for a lady in distress. None of which fully accounted for his sullen rage, if he'd allowed himself to face the plain, unvarnished truth.

But he didn't. Nor had he for a very long time, intent on disallowing personal feelings—a necessary expedient for a man still dealing with loss.

The clerk in the antechamber stammered in alarm when Dermott burst through the door demanding to see Herbert Leslie.

"Never mind," Dermott growled, pushing past him, shoving the door to the inner office open with a stiff-armed push and striding in like a raging bull.

Herbert's eyes bulged with terror, and he jerked back in his chair as though the impact of Dermott's arrival had propelled him there.

"Out," Dermott snapped to the man seated across the desk from Herbert, and without waiting for the employee to exit the room, he said in a voice so cold, the office manager told the flustered workers beginning to gather outside in the corridor that someone should call for a Bow Street Runner.

Dermott kicked aside the formerly occupied chair, and placing his palms on the desktop, leaned forward, menace in his dark gaze. "Listen carefully, Leslie," he growled. "Because I'm going to say this only once."

Herbert trembled in his chair, wondering how he'd possibly incurred the wrath of the Earl of Bathurst, who was renowned for both his temper and his skill with dueling pistols.

"I understand that you've threatened Miss Isabella Leslie with an unwanted marriage and the loss of her inheritance. Let me express this as plainly as possible so there can be no mistaking my intentions. If you, your brother, nephews, or son"—he pointedly enunciated each relationship with precision—"ever attempt to harm Miss Leslie again, I will personally call each of you out and kill you. Is that clear?"

Unable to move in his fright, Herbert opened his mouth and croaked.

"Nod your damned head if you can't talk, you bloody coward."

Gathering every ounce of energy not frozen in fear, Herbert managed to nod once.

Dermott stood upright and glared at the petrified man. "Another thing," he curtly noted. "Don't be seen within ten blocks of Isabella's house, or my same warning applies. And this isn't an idle threat. I'd take great pleasure in putting a bullet through your foul hearts."

Turning, the earl stalked from the room, scattering the huddle of employees outside like a flock of frightened birds while Herbert tried to draw enough air into his lungs to cry for help. When Leslie could finally speak again, he ordered that all the doors be locked to visitors until further notice. And it wasn't until nearly an hour later that his panic and fear subsided enough to consider the baffling question of why the Earl of Bathurst was concerned with his niece. Herbert immediately called together those members of his family included in the earl's threat, and they decided one and all, regardless the earl's interest in Isabella, that they weren't willing to face his expert marksmanship on the dueling field. Isabella's fortune wasn't worth their lives.

But by morning, greed had overruled fear and the male Leslies met again to consider possible ways to gain access to Isabella's inheritance without either the earl's or Isabella's knowledge. They discussed approaching old Lampert, although none was sure whether he actually could draw from the funds. The manager of George Leslie's bank next came under consideration. Could he be bribed or coerced to give them access to Isabella's accounts? They berated George Leslie for denying them any partnership in his businesses, conveniently forgetting he'd lent them the money to develop their own enterprises. In the course of their meeting, they scrutinized anyone close to Isabella's money in the hopes of arriving at a plan. And while they arrived at no conclusive scheme, they agreed to pursue the project. Under the deepest secrecy, however. None dared risk Bathurst's wrath.

Dermott spent the remainder of the day in his study with the shutters drawn, a brandy bottle in hand, intent on drinking himself into oblivion. And so Lord Moira found him when he stopped by on his way to Brooks's.

Dermott looked up at Moira's entrance and scowled. "I'm not in the mood for gossip or talk of Wales's latest imbroglio with his family. Or actually company at all."

"Pray tell what's put you in such a charming mood?" Hastings inquired, ignoring Dermott's churlishness and walking in.

"I dislike springtime," the earl mockingly replied.

"Ah… so you'll be drunk for some weeks," his friend drolly noted, taking a seat across from Dermott, lounging back and crossing his legs at the ankles.

"Don't get too comfortable, Francis. You'll find me exceedingly poor company."

"Then I'll pass on my small
on-dit
and be on my way."

Dermott cast him a moody glance from under half-lowered lashes. "I rather thought you might have a tidbit for my edification."

"It has to do with your latest paramour," Moira said with a small smile.

"And which one might that be?" Dermott drawled.

"The one you've spent the last fortnight with."

"And how the hell would you know that?" Dermott pushed himself upward from his lazy sprawl, his gaze sharp.

"Molly has Miss Leslie under her wing."

Dermott leaned back in his chair. "You're not telling me anything I don't know."

"Molly also summoned me for a boon the other day."

"I'm sure I'm not going to want to hear what that favor might be."

"She's intent on launching Miss Leslie into society."

"And your part in this?" Dermott casually inquired.

"To find her a sponsor."

Dermott refilled his glass and drained half of it before he replied. "I wish her good fortune."

"You're unconcerned?"

Dermott lifted his glass to his mouth. "Shouldn't I be?"

Moira shrugged. "I told Molly you wouldn't care."

Dermott's gaze narrowed. "Is this some form of manipulation on Molly's part?"

"Not entirely. Perhaps not at all. I think Molly genuinely wants the young lady launched. Apparently, Miss Leslie has looks and money, and if not the bluest blood, a considerable fortune that will absolve her of that unfortunate defect."

"If I know the male predators in the ton, her beauty alone will easily overcome any irregularities of birth."

"So she's fair game?"

Dermott lifted his shoulder in the faintest of shrugs. "Why ask me? I have no claim on her."

"I didn't think you had."

"I have no intention of changing my way of life. You may pass that on to Molly."

"Just so." Lord Moira uncrossed his legs. "In the event you tire of your own company, Wales is having his usual coterie to Carlton House tonight. Come and join us."

"Who's her sponsor?"

Moira's gaze took on a new alertness as he rose from his chair. "Lady Hertford."

"Prinny's newest bed partner. So he's involved in this?"

"The Prince feels he owes the girl a favor since her grandfather paid for most of his Italian art collection."

"Really. And when did Prinny acquire these philanthropic instincts?"

"Who knows what motivates him, but I doubt any of this will come to your notice anyway," Moira declared, watching Dermott intently. "It's not as though you grace the deb balls and entertainments."

Dermott softly swore, and sliding into a sullen sprawl, reached for the brandy bottle. "Nor will I, Francis," he growled. "Tell Molly that."

Later that evening, Lord Moira and Molly had a chat. After describing his visit to the earl, Francis noted that he rather thought Dermott might make an appearance at an occasional party this season. Or at least some of those attended by Miss Leslie.

"Tell me again, everything he said," Molly demanded, exceptionally pleased with Moira's account. "And exactly how he looked."

The next morning, Molly informed Isabella that she'd received a note from Dermott explaining he'd warned off the Leslies.

"I'm free to go home, then." Isabella felt both relief and sadness. Much as she wished to be liberated from her relatives' schemes, Molly and, of course, Dermott meant much to her.

"I'm hoping I may coax you into staying with me at Grosvenor Place while we're planning your entrance into society," Molly remarked. "Although I understand you have to see to your personal affairs. Might I suggest we move to my town home and from there you make the necessary excursions to your house and business. Or better yet, if you don't think me too cautious, why not have your superior servants and business managers come to Grosvenor Place. I don't trust your relatives regardless Dermott's warning to them. Perhaps I've lived too long in a disreputable world. But such evil people don't turn virtuous overnight."

"You may coax me, with pleasure. In truth, I enjoy your company enormously. As for my business affairs, between Lampert and Grandpapa's chief steward, Morgan, I may take a banker's holiday during the season without concern. It's not as though I have the opportunity to mix with such superior people every day." She lightly laughed. "Don't worry, Molly, I'm not likely to have my head turned by the haut monde."

"They're all quite ordinary people, if truth be known."

"But it will be fun for at least a brief time to observe the social whirl firsthand. Now then," Isabella remarked in a businesslike tone that brought Molly's gaze up. "I'll send a message to Lampert and Morgan and my housekeeper. Would tomorrow morning suit for a meeting with them?"

"Consider my house yours. You decide."

"Very well. Tomorrow at nine."

And despite Molly's doubt that her houseguest would be about that early, she was surprised to hear that Isabella had been dressed and ready for her retainers shortly before nine. Such an hour was much too early for Molly's constitution. She preferred the first light of day to be approaching noon. And in that regard, she matched the tastes of the ton.