B006O3T9DG EBOK (65 page)

This time, there was no denying it. The voice in the dream was Juliette’s. It still echoed in her head—words of such intimacy she blushed in recollection. It was as if her own mind had made her a voyeur to her husband’s infidelity. A cold, grasping hand of dismay clamped upon her heart. It took several minutes to convince herself that it was a fiction and not a true portrayal of her husband. Still, she dared not sleep again. The pain she felt was palpable.

Dropping to the floor, she drew Darcy’s robe about her. Fearing what vexation might next afflict her, she was tempted to go to the nursery and take the remainder of the night with her children. That would surely soothe her, but might awaken them. She decided against it. Taking a candle in hand once more, she repaired to her dressing-room. It did not take much light to find what she sought. She withdrew it from the drawer and hastily ran back across the floor and leapt onto the bed.

With great care, she unwrapped the soft, protective cloth from the ivory miniature. She did not realise that she had held her breath until she released a great sigh of relief. Just the sight of her husband’s likeness gazing back at her was a comfort. Holding the candle high, she ran her fingertips reassuringly across his features. One by one, she took measure of his countenance—strong chin, straight, patrician nose, and a singularly seductive lower lip. In the miniature, however, his eyes were dispassionate. That was its one falsehood. But then, no painter could capture the lightening that roiled beneath Darcy’s taciturn exterior. His eyes, though reticent, were, in truth, as dark and deep as an abyss.

Although she had not yet shaken off her dreams, she understood what provoked them. A missive from Lady Howgrave arrived just days before. In swirling, sophisticated script, it bore Darcy’s name. Believing that its contents might need the immediate attention of his solicitor, she had forwarded it to Darcy the moment it arrived. Perhaps she should have read the letter before redirecting it. Another wife might have done so. However, she did not believe her husband’s devotion was so weak that a letter from another woman would contravene it.

Nonetheless, the lurid nightmares had been annoyingly real and they had agitated her in a way she did not care to admit. As it happened, it was not Juliette’s letter that provoked them. Most likely, they were aggravated by a post she had received that afternoon. It was from Darcy, apprising her that he would be delayed.

He was to London after all.

One thing was no longer deniable. Elizabeth recognised that her dreams were announcing what she would not. Lady Howgrave did not want Darcy’s aide as a gentleman. She wanted Darcy—and not to just decorate her arm. She might well have been abused by her husband, but she did not need Darcy for her to leave him. It took a woman to recognise another’s design.

“’Nectar of his loins?’ How ridiculous!” she thought. “Who would speak such nonsense? A woman of accommodating morals?”

Knowing that the more she fretted over such imaginings, the more they would plague her; she put out the candle and crawled beneath the bedclothes. This time, she held the miniature near to her heart. And with it, came a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 86

Forewarned

There was but a matter of seconds between the time Darcy was announced and when he strode to her. Had she the time, she would have girded her loins—for they were much in need bracing. When he was but an arm’s length away, he stopped abruptly and, almost as an afterthought, offered a stiff bow. His scent, a musky blend of masculinity and leather, wafted over her like the tide.

That and the very vigour of his figure gifted her a frisson within her feminine cleft. It was one so fully engaged that all her senses screamed that she run from the room and interfere with herself libidinously in private. Choosing between that and standing her ground (and pressing her knees together), she could but chose the latter.

With great determination, she disallowed her thoughts to dwell upon her very present titillation and take measure of his expression. That, more than words, would betray his true mind. She had seen him but once since his child’s death, and that was in the darkness of his garden. Then, he had been inscrutably curt. In the candlelight of her salon, she could see him quite clearly and believed that she detected an alteration in his countenance. Unsurprisingly, it was one of great subtleness. She did not think it attributable to age. (Men had a maddening ability to grow ever more handsome with time.) Shaking aside such deliberations, she endeavoured to put what time he might allot her to good use. Her eyes—the avenue to one’s very soul—promised him all she had to give.

With a half-gasp, she cried, “I knew you would come!”

As she said those words, the weight of her long-felt tribulations overcame her and she, quite without sham of any kind, fell into his arms. Her milky shoulders shuddered against his coat as she struggled not to weep. However sincere her cri de coeur might have been, Mr. Darcy did not respond in kind.

“I fear you mistake my visit, Lady Howgrave. I am not come in response to your previous entreaties, but to offer a caution of extreme urgency.”

She took but a half step backward, just far enough that she could still feel the warmth of his breath. Placing a delicately manicured hand upon his forearm and an expression of due diligence upon her face, she listened.

“I have good reason to believe that a gentleman of your acquaintance is an impostor,” he stated.

She sighed. “If you are here to apprise me of the fact that my husband is not a gentleman, he has proven that nightly.”

Juliette had been arranging her bracelets, her thoughts much engaged in how to guide their conversation into one of intimacy, when something in his voice made her cease simpering and pay heed.

He continued, “I have come to learn that the man that you know as Alistair Reed Thomas may well be Major George Wickham, army deserter, murderer—a compleat villain. There is no deed too nefarious for him not to consider. His likeness is similar to mine—a twist of fate that has allowed him to repeatedly use my name ill.”

Juliette placed the first three fingers of her right hand against her lips. In doing so, she allowed herself time to grasp fully what he had said. She recalled the name. Major Wickham had been married to Elizabeth Darcy’s sister. It was above three years since her friend, Marie-Therese Lambert had come to her in London asking that she contact Darcy on her behalf. Marie-Therese had known of Wickham’s whereabouts and was obliged to tell Darcy of it. Juliette recalled it particularly because it was the last time she saw Darcy before her marriage to Howgrave.

To Darcy, she said, “I recall that we spoke of him in London. A lady friend of mine had information of him. It was my understanding that he is now dead.”

“That was my belief as well,” Darcy said. “Indeed, I cannot be certain until I see him for myself. Still, I felt it my duty to warn you of him.”

His avid interest in her well-being bode well for a possible tryst. The likelihood, however, that Alistair was George Wickham was remote. A man of such a history would conceal his identity, not enter the public arena. That made no sense whatsoever. Juliette believed that Darcy might be using that as a ploy to see her. The worm may well have turned.

“You are so kind to worry for me,” she said, lowering her eyelashes demurely.

Deep in thought, Darcy’s eyes narrowed a bit.

He said, “A man who may have recognised Wickham was murdered just last night behind White’s. Please beware.”

Sensing he meant to take his leave, she bid, “Why did you come to me and not my husband?”

Folding his hands behind his back, his countenance bore a measure of discomfiture. Juliette raised her chin just a bit, begging an answer. She watched him closely as he formed his reply. What he was to say meant all to her.

“Wickham fancies himself a lover,” Darcy said carefully, “I believed that, of the two, your dignity would be more apt to be compromised by his schemes.”

Before her very eyes, all the hope she had heaped upon this encounter dissipated like a candle snuffed by the wind. One last flicker and it was gone.

“I thank you, Mr. Darcy, for your kind thoughts. Mr. Thomas means little to me no matter his true identity. However, he is secretary to my husband. I shall advise Sir Howgrave that he may have a mountebank in his midst—howbeit, I confess, he shall be difficult to discern —one from all the others.”

Darcy appeared relieved, happy perhaps in the knowledge that she would not issue another plea like those which had been so futile in the past. If he harboured a lingering desire for her, he had managed to conquer it. Fit and handsome, he would head his coach homeward, without a backward glance or recollection of their time together.

Turning away, she whispered,
“Merci, Mon cheri.”

“I bid you good-day,” he replied.

Before he quite turned to go, she said, “May I beg another moment of your time?”

Betraying a flicker of apprehension, he said, “Yes. Of course.”

“When last we spoke I was
tres tristesse
. I was out of spirits.
Tres.”

His voice a bit gentler, he said, “I have advised my solicitor to serve you in any way possible. He stands by even now.”

“Does he?”

“Indeed.”

“It is propitious that you have come here yourself to apprise me of Mr. Thomas’s possible duplicity. There are other matters of an intimate nature upon which we must speak,” she said, adding coyly, “Certain
impropriétés
must not fall victim to the indiscretion of the pen.”

His gaze was wary, but he did not speak.

“You shall have need of your solicitor’s services.”

Neither his posture nor his countenance altered.

Her chin dipped fetchingly, she said, “Am I to flee from my husband’s beatings, I must be well-funded. Your previous offer, while helpful, was a pittance. I shall require more—much more.”

Pursing his lips, he said, “I fear you have over-estimated my generosity....”

“Not only do I have to see to my own keep, I must attend to my child. Your son—
fils naturel.”

She turned and faced him. To his credit, Darcy did not appear to flinch. Under such a revelation, his reserve was quite remarkable. It was well-nigh a match for her persistence.

She continued, “He is attending Exeter and shall, no doubt, bring from thence all the stock English accomplishments. He resides under a friend’s name. I seldom see him, but he has your length of bone. Indeed, he is handsome boy. In time, it may be necessary to reveal his parentage.”

She could see Darcy’s veil of hauteur reinforcing itself. He needed more prodding.

“The child is a remembrance from our last time together. I would never think of pursuing an portion of your estate, but he should most assuredly be kept in a manner befitting his bloodline—and well-away from society hens and prying dowagers. I have decided on Venice.”

It was difficult to hold his gaze. After a moment, she looked away.

Her allegation had been carried out on impulse, a farce that she had not had time to thoroughly study. She wondered whether he recalled the specifics of their waning affair—how in the last year he came to her but once and refused her attempts to engage him in amatory rites. At the time, she had been both miffed and mystified. What she had not been was
enceinte
.

When she introduced her fabrication to him, she was prepared to weather his anger, denials, even (dare she hope) acquiescence. What she did not expect was to have her assertion be ignored. However, he spoke only to what brought him there.