The Nude (full-length historical romance) (36 page)

A light knock on the door broke his concentration.

“My lord,” Gainsford called out. The butler’s voice wavered, a sure sign of nervousness . . . or guilt. “My lord, your uncle is demanding to see you.” Gainsford paused. “He says he will search the house if I tell him again that you are away from home.”

* * * * *

“I spoke with Lord Baneshire last evening,” Uncle Charles said. He was sitting like a king in the drawing room, his pudgy fingers digging into a golden snuffbox. Nasty habit, snuff. One Nigel never could find a liking for. Uncle Charles sniffed loudly. “Unless you release Lady Mercer, he plans to expose you in a most undignified and public manner for your immoral behavior. Your marriage wasn’t exactly legal, now was it, boy?”

“I intend to make it legal.”

Uncle Charles sniffed again. “That chit is of no value to you as your wife. She is barren and a tainted widow. Everyone knows how her husband was a perverted monster. Even my boy Charlie, supposedly one of Lord Mercer’s closest friends, admits to being horrified by his demented behaviors.”

“She is wounded, not tainted.”

“In your position, there is no difference.” Uncle Charles sniffed again. “Set her up with a stipend and put her in a pleasant cottage that is convenient to you. Society will laugh off your outrageous behavior and call you a scamp, a rogue, and invite you to all their insufferable balls.”

“No, Uncle.”

“She is young and pretty. She’ll make a fine mistress.”

“She
will not
be my mistress.” Uncle Charles was not listening to him.

“A man who has gone too long without a mistress is bound to make a mistake when choosing a wife. The wrong parts start guiding his decisions.” Still ignoring Nigel, he reached into his box for another pinch of snuff. “I’ve seen it happen all too often, boy. Now, about the attempts against your life. That is why I’ve come. We
must
see that they are stopped.” Uncle Charles slammed his fist into the arm of the chair, the snuff between his fingers flying. “I will not allow you to die young like your father! Damn you, boy. You should have told me about them earlier. Your horse-riding accident, it wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“No.”

“Of course it wasn’t. I should have known. Unlike Charlie, you are a natural horseman.”

“I have the matter well in hand.” He simply needed to figure out how to win Elsbeth’s trust and convince her to tell him everything she knew.

“So you say . . . no matter, I have hired several Bow Street Runners to thwart the villain.” He pushed heavily against the chair and rose. “They’re tracking down that George Waver. Charlie’s idea, I know. But the boy seems to be gaining some sense as he ages, thank the good Lord.”

There was no stopping Uncle Charles once he had set a course. Besides, the addition of a few more Bow Street Runners wasn’t unwelcome.

This might actually be a good thing. With Uncle Charles distracted with chasing after the man responsible for the murder attempts, it would give Nigel time to make his marriage legal.

Elsbeth may not yet love him, but he wasn’t willing to give her up.

Not a chance
.

His uncle’s visit had made that much clear to him. He needed to act, and act soon, to make it near to impossible for anyone to tear his Elsbeth away from him. Devil take it, he would have to suffer through another social event. It was the only way.

“Gainsford!” he called out through the halls of his empty house soon after his uncle had left. “Gainsford!”

The cheerful butler appeared from around a corner. “Yes, my lord?”

“Begin what needs to be done to plan a ball. As grand as you can imagine. I wish to celebrate my marriage in the most visible and crowded manner.”

Gainsford’s face paled. “A ball, my lord? With-with
people
? Are you certain?”

“Yes, Gainsford. The more the better.” Nigel began pacing.

“And when shall this ball be held?”

Soon
. Tonight would be impossible. It would take at least a few days to prepare for such an ordeal. To order the food. To send out invitations. “Friday should do.”

“F-Friday, my lord?”

“Yes, Friday.” He was adament.

“Very good, my lord,” Gainsford gave a deep bow and hurried down the hall.

* * * * *

Elsbeth returned from a long, trying day of visiting a string of residences to find the Edgeware household in chaos. The servants were running this way and that while speaking far too loudly and apparently accomplishing nothing. After pulling off her gloves she grabbed hold of Gainsford’s arm as he rushed by her. He nearly dropped the three-stemmed candelabra he was carrying toward the dining room.

“I beg your pardon, my lady. I didn’t see you there, my lady,” he stammered. “There is so much to be done.”

“For what purpose?” she asked, a brow raised and her voice purposefully stern.

“For the ball, of course. He wants it held on Friday. Friday! And it has to be a grand affair with over half of England in attendance.”

“I see,” she said, wondering what her husband was up to. Though she had some stern words for him, it had nothing to do with this ball. Knowing well her duty as marchioness, she gathered the servants around and took the matter of planning the ball well in hand. She assigned each servant several specific tasks and had taken it upon her self to handle the most important details personally. After Friday evening, there would be no question that she was simply Nigel’s
latest piece of baggage
, or
a grasping mishap
. His mistress. Indeed!

She may have been hidden away throughout her marriage to Lord Mercer, as if she were nothing more than an embarrassment or a failure. But she wasn’t going to hide any longer. She had every right to take her hard-earned place in society. And she intended to do just that.

But it wasn’t those whispering town tabbies who had made tears spring to her eyes. No, it was something that had been carelessly said to her by a lady whose reputation was far more tattered than her own. In fact, the very beautiful Mademoiselle Dukard wasn’t a lady at all. She’d made her fortune from selling her favor to rich gentleman.

Gentlemen like Lord Mercer and—she wiped away a tear—Nigel.

Nigel
.

“Even your Lord Edgeware keeps a mistress,” Mademoiselle Dukard had leaned forward in her velvet chair, which was the exact shade as her lovely crimson gown. She’d said it in defense of her own profession. But the words hurt just the same. “He visits her several times a week, you should know. I hear he was with her yesterday.”

Elsbeth had had to swallow down a sudden stab of pain.

“I’ve not come to discuss my husband,” she’d said crisply. “It is his cousin, Mr. Purbeck who interests me. Do you know if his financial affairs have taken a turn for the worst recently? Is he in danger of coming to a bad end if he doesn’t pay off an unsavory moneylender?”

Mademoiselle Dukard had given a deep throaty laugh. “I know of nothing so dramatic.”

She told Elsbeth how Charlie was down on his luck, but that was nothing new for him. And there were others in the
ton
who were much worse off. There had been a horserace at Newmarket whose outcome was supposedly guaranteed. But it didn’t turn out how the young bucks who’d laid down a fortune in funds had expected. Charlie, the mademoiselle had heard, had placed the largest of those bets, though most of that money was not his own. Several of his friends lost small fortunes after being lured by Charlie into putting up their own funds on what he’d promised to be easy money.

“Of course your Edgeware is more careful with his fortune,” Mademoiselle Dukard had said. “He spends more time with his beautiful mistress than at the horse races.”

Elsbeth tried to steer the conversation back to finding the evidence she needed to prove to Nigel that Charlie was plotting to do him harm, but the mademoiselle resisted. Desperate to talk about anything but Nigel’s mistress, Elsbeth had even tried to question her about Dionysus. What did she know about him? While Mademoiselle Dukard seemed genuinely interested in finding Dionysus for herself—it would make her a fortune in blackmail—she knew very little that was helpful.

Undaunted, Elsbeth had pressed on, all the while her heart breaking over the news of Nigel visiting his mistress even after Elsbeth had spent the last several nights in his bed. Perhaps she hadn’t pleased him. Perhaps Lord Mercer had been right. Perhaps she
was
too cold for a man to enjoy.

“I don’t know if you are aware,” Elsbeth had said, while fighting off tears, “but several attempts have been made against the Marquess’s life. Do you know if Mr. Purbeck or Dionysus or anyone else for that matter would have a reason to want him dead?”

Mademoiselle Dukard had pursed her glossy, full lips. “No, no, not Charlie. He’s more like a vulture, circling the dead. He wouldn’t kill. He’d only plunder.” She waved her hand in the air. “As for Dionysus or the others in the Marquess’s life?” She shrugged. “I cannot say.”

No amount of prodding could get Mademoiselle Dukard to change her mind on that matter, and eventually she’d left the woman’s parlor. Like Nigel, the mademoiselle firmly believed Charlie to be nothing worse than a swindler. Elsbeth knew better. Yet she didn’t know how to convince anyone that he was a danger . . . to her . . . and to Nigel.

Nigel
.

She swiped at another troublesome tear.

The thought of him going to a mistress . . .

Anger and anguish pounded in equal measure against her breast.

“Where is his lordship?” she asked Gainsford before sending him off to take inventory of the wine cellar. Lord Mercer had never been faithful. Apparently it was a flaw common to all men. No matter, she planned to take a strip off Nigel’s sorry hide. He’d tricked her into a marriage she hadn’t wanted and yet continued to see his mistress? The cad. The bounder.

“Why he’s in his study, my lady. Do you need me to show you the way?”

Twisting her gloves with ruthless determination, she let Gainsford lead her to Nigel’s study. He sat at his desk. His man-of-affairs, a smart looking man with thick glasses, sat in a chair across from him. He appeared to be working on a long list.

Nigel glanced up and gave her a smile.

Was he thinking of his mistress now while he smiled at her, his wife? Her heart shrank away from the thought.

After dismissing his man-of-affairs, he crossed the room and placed a kiss on her cheek that left her cold. He’d made love to her. His hands had moved across her body, making her feel more than she had ever dreamed possible. Had he been thinking of his mistress
then?

“My lord,” she said, curtly. She made a conscious effort to lay her twisted gloves aside and to not reach for the locket she’d stopped wearing several days ago.

He gave a long sigh. “Elsbeth.”

Eyes dark as the midnight sky stared into her soul until she found it nearly impossible not to fidget. Surely, he didn’t plan on just standing there . . . staring.

“My lord,” she said again, feeling suddenly confused. When she was around him lately she found it hard to think, which only confused her more.

How could he make love with such passion every night and still pay visits to a mistress? How could he be so cruel?

She was about to demand an answer when she saw it.

Above the fireplace hung the town house’s only work of art—a tempest ripping a delicate rainbow to shreds. The painting sharply reminded her of what he was doing to her heart.

* * * * *

Nigel cursed. He should have never allowed her entrance into this, his private domain. Her lips parted slightly as she stood transfixed by the painting.

That damned painting, a raging tempest that violently tossed about the waves at sea. The sea and the wind tore at the canvas. The purples, blues, and blacks created an ominous image of Dionysus’s soul . . . of Nigel’s soul.