A Husband's Wicked Ways (27 page)

“You could go alone and make my excuses,” she suggested, fastening a netted snood around the knot of hair. “Cornelia will be there.”

“No…no…I think I’ll settle for a quiet evening, too.” He paused with his hand on the door, glancing over his shoulder at her as she sat on the dresser stool. “Shall I look in before I go to bed?”

“By all means,” she said easily. “I intend to seek my bed early, though, so I may not be awake.”

“I’ll take my chance then,” he returned drily, and left her.

Aurelia sat for a moment longer wondering what had just happened. They had touched some sore spots, approached some emotional boundaries whatever Greville might say about avoiding them at all costs. She couldn’t at the moment decide whether that had been an achievement or not.

“I’m assuming I don’t need to wear formal evening dress for this event, Aurelia.” Greville came into Aurelia’s bedchamber on the Friday evening of the Lessingham soiree, brushing at the silk sleeve of a dark gray coat.

“Not Almack’s formal, certainly,” she said, turning to look at him while still holding out her arm for Hester, who was intent on fastening the row of tiny buttons at the cuffs of the long, full sleeves of her gown. “That will do nicely. You look very much à la mode.” Indeed, the formfitting, dark gray silk coat and skintight, knitted, dove-gray pantaloons couldn’t be faulted, unless, of course, one would rather one’s husband did not display the masculine muscularity of his figure quite so blatantly in public.

“May I return the compliment,” he responded with an appreciative smile.

Aurelia knew that the old gold damask gown, fastened at the waist with a tasseled cord, the décolletage accentuated by a simple collar of deep gold amber circling her throat, more than flattered her coloring. Hester had
spent hours with the curling iron perfecting the cluster of pale blond ringlets framing her face, and she thought without an excess of vanity that she was looking her best.

Not an accurate reflection of her inner self, however. Since their unhappily fruitless discussion of the previous afternoon, Greville had behaved as if they had never come anywhere near such difficult emotional territory, and Aurelia found it impossible to do anything but follow his lead. But what had not been said yawned like a wasteland between them, or so
she
felt.

“Don’t forget your fan.” He picked up the delicate Japanese painted fan and unfurled its ivory sticks.

“I’m not about to.” The fan was to be their medium of communication, most particularly if a Don Antonio Vasquez was one of the guests. Her role tonight was simply to engage the man in conversation, flirt with him, draw him out as far as possible, act as bait in fact, and Greville would make his own move when he judged the time right. She had a series of gestures with the fan that would impart basic information if she decided he needed it.

He nodded. “Shall we go then?” He took her evening cloak from Hester and draped it carefully about her shoulders, then as he reached his hands around to fasten it at the throat, he bent and brushed the nape of her neck in a warm whisper of a kiss.

His mouth as always sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine and a warm jolt to her belly. She stepped
away from him quickly, slipping the fan into her beaded reticule. “Ready,” she stated with a bright smile.

Greville’s eyebrows flickered as he offered her his arm, but he said nothing.

In the carriage Aurelia sat back in a corner, idly playing with the drawstring of the reticule that she wore around her wrist. Greville sat opposite, watching her through half-closed eyes. Sulfur yellow light flickered across the windowpanes as they passed beneath the gas streetlights. The unpleasant light cast a sickly yellow glow across the interior of the coach.

“Are you apprehensive?” he asked finally.

“Not particularly.” She looked up, surprised. “Should I be?”

“No. You’ve had enough training for this to be as easy as playing Lottery Tickets with Franny.”

“It’s a simple enough card game, I grant you,” she said with a faint smile. “Unlikely to offer any complicated play.”

“Well, tonight should be the same. But you seem a little distrait and I would not have you distracted. If there’s anything that’s troubling you, you should tell me now.”

Dear God,
Aurelia thought.
Don’t you ever think of anything but the game in hand? You can’t begin to imagine that I might be distracted by anything other than this evening’s ploy.

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing troubling me,” she said. “Why should there be? All I have to do is engage a
man in conversation, something I’ve been doing quite skillfully ever since I put my hair up.”

“We are talking about a particular man, and a particular point to the conversation.”

Aurelia shrugged. “It doesn’t make any difference, Greville. One conversation is conducted essentially very like another.”

“True enough. And I will never be out of your sight.” He leaned back against the squabs, folding his arms. “Show me again what gesture will tell me that you want me to come over and join you.”

Without expression, Aurelia took her fan from the reticule and flicked it open. She moved it to the height of her right shoulder and waved it with a twist of her wrist towards her face. “Good enough, spymaster?”

And suddenly she felt her spirit lighten. She loved this game for itself. She loved the sense of competency she felt, the knowledge that she was outwitting a roomful of people who thought she was one person, when she was quite another. And as a bonus tonight, none of her close friends would be there, so the deception had no strings attached.

Greville caught the flash of light in her eye, the sudden twitch of her lips, and felt himself relax. Whatever the unresolved issues between them, Aurelia would not let them get in the way of her role play.

“More than good enough.” He reached across the narrow gap and took her hand. “I know you will be superb, my dear. You are made for this work.”

He had said it before, but the repetition never failed to excite her, to fill her with a sense of power. For tonight, nothing existed but their partnership and the game they would play.

The carriage drew up in front of the Earl of Lessingham’s mansion on Berkeley Square. A footman from the house ran up to open the carriage door before Jemmy could jump down from his seat on the box beside the coachman.

“Good evening, Sir Greville, Lady Falconer.” The footman held open the door and offered a hand to Aurelia.

She stepped down to the street, puzzled that the man should have recognized the carriage, a fairly modest conveyance, bearing no livery on the panels.

Greville descended without assistance. “My thanks,” he said with a nod at the servant. “You’re an observant fellow.”

“I was told to watch for you, sir,” the man said, pocketing the coin Greville slipped into his hand. “Most of the guests at her ladyship’s Friday soirees come on foot, or by ’ackney carriage.”

Greville merely smiled in vague acknowledgment and gave Aurelia his arm as they followed the man into the lighted hall.

“Why on foot?” Aurelia whispered.

“Exiles…too poor to afford private carriages,” Greville murmured. “Or unwilling to admit that they can…which would in itself be rather interesting.
Find out, if you can, Don Antonio’s means of transportation.”

Aurelia smiled a little, but nothing showed on her face as she ascended the staircase to greet her hostess waiting at the head. Doña Bernardina, her voluptuous curves accentuated by a gown of rose gauze over crimson satin, confined tightly beneath full breasts, flung open her hands as if she were an opera singer about to launch into an aria. Aurelia caught her breath, afraid that with the extravagant gesture the rich swell of the lady’s bosom would spill forth like two overfed and excitable puppies. They stayed in their basket however.

“Lady Falconer, how good of you to come.” Doña Bernardina’s black mantilla was fastened to her décolletage with a ruby broach, massive diamond drops hung from her earlobes, and three strands of perfect pearls were wound around her neck.

She turned her radiant smile on Greville. “And Sir Greville. I bid you welcome.”

Greville bowed low over the plump white hand, beringed fingers ending in long scarlet nails. “Lady Lessingham,” he murmured.

The countess led the way through a set of double doors into a large apartment furnished with an opulence as conspicuous as her own. Swagged curtains, a multiplicity of silk cushions on deep velvet armchairs and gilded sofas, rich Persian carpets in a riot of colors, all contrasted with the massive, gold-framed oil paintings of generally
somber-looking gentlemen, presumably the earl’s ancestors, against dark and rocky backgrounds that adorned the silk-hung walls.

Two or three groups of people were scattered around the salon. A woman was seated at a pianoforte in the far corner of the room, the music providing a soft counterpoint to the buzz of conversation.

Greville took in the room’s occupants. Don Antonio Vasquez was not among them. He turned with a smile to his wife. “Permit me, my dear.” Solicitously he adjusted the tawny-toned paisley shawl over Aurelia’s shoulders.

She understood at once that their specific quarry was not present, and she relaxed a little, accepting a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray and responding to her hostess’s introductions to their fellow guests.

For an hour she moved among the guests, exchanging pleasantries, accustoming her ear to their occasionally thickly accented English. She knew that she must absorb as much of the conversations as she could, listening for anything that might hint at an unusual activity or interest. Don Antonio’s absence did not mean that the evening was wasted. One or two of these generally solemn and preoccupied gentlemen were more than possibly agents of Napoléon, and she might pick up something useful.

Greville kept to his own circuit, glancing only occasionally in Aurelia’s direction to satisfy himself that she was holding her own in comfort. When Don An
tonio Vasquez was announced in ringing tones by the butler, Greville didn’t turn his head towards the door, merely continued softly with his conversation with an elderly matron, who was lamenting the loss of her treasures, which she’d been obliged to abandon when her son had taken his entire family into exile just ahead of the usurper.

The fine hairs on Aurelia’s nape lifted at the sound of the name, but she didn’t turn immediately, not until Doña Bernardina billowed over to them, the newcomer in tow. “Ladies…gentlemen, some of you know Don Antonio, I’m sure.”

There were murmurs of agreement, hands shaken, bows exchanged, before it was Aurelia’s turn to be introduced. She extended her hand to the tall, slender man with the spade beard and coal black eyes. His hair was longer than prevailing fashion dictated, curling a little on his broad forehead. Apart from his white shirt, he was dressed entirely in black, and it suited him, she thought, absorbing his appearance with an almost clinical detachment. His countenance was arresting, almost aggressively handsome, but his mouth was cruel, and his long nose resembled a hawk’s beak.

Aurelia decided she would not care to meet Don Antonio Vasquez alone in a dark street. There was something predatory about him, and something intrinsically dangerous in his lithe, fluid grace. As the introductions were made, she sensed instantly that he had an interest
of some kind in her. His hand as he held hers was cool and dry, the fingers long and white, a huge emerald set in gold on his right-hand ring finger. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it with a courtly flourish and a bow that was now so old-fashioned as to be almost archaic in London society.

“Lady Falconer, how delightful.” His voice was soft and almost mellifluous, the accent faint and charming, and his mouth smiled, but his eyes did not.

“Don Antonio, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” she returned with a warm smile. “How long have you been in London?”

“A mere three weeks,” he said, taking a glass of champagne from the footman’s tray. “Not long enough to feel at home as yet.” He sipped his champagne. “And you, Lady Falconer, you are, of course, quite at home in London?”

“I have lived here for some time. But my family home is in the country. In the New Forest. Have you visited there? It’s a most interesting and ancient part of England.”

“No, alas, I have seen only the town of Dover, where I landed, and the area around my lodgings. Grosvenor Square…a pretty garden, but with none of the magnificence of our Madrid parks.”

“Perhaps not, sir. I own I have long wished to visit Madrid.” Aurelia tapped her closed fan against her mouth as if in thought. Greville would understand that
while battle had been joined, she needed no assistance at this point. “But you say you have lodgings on Grosvenor Square?”

“Close by. Adam’s Row, I believe it to be called.”

“Yes, indeed. We are neighbors, it seems, Don Antonio. South Audley Street is but a step away, too close to warrant the use of a carriage.”

“What a delightful coincidence, and so convenient since I do not maintain a carriage. Such an unnecessary expense when hackney carriages are so easy to obtain. Perhaps I may call upon you, my lady.”

This was not a gentleman accustomed to the rough-and-tumble of a frowsty hackney carriage,
Aurelia reflected. It was almost impossible to imagine that elegant frame reposing itself on the cracked and stained leather squabs of a hired vehicle.

She smiled an invitation. “I should be happy to receive you, sir. Are you acquainted with my husband, Sir Greville Falconer?”

“I don’t believe so,” he replied smoothly, turning his head to follow her gesturing hand. He turned his cold smile upon her. “Is your husband the tall gentleman talking to our host?”

She nodded. “He is.”

“I think I may have seen him in Grosvenor Square gardens. He was with a small girl and a very large dog. They made a most charming spectacle.”

“My daughter.” Aurelia felt a shiver down her spine as if she was standing in an icy draft.

“A pretty child, ma’am. I congratulate you.”