Her Husband's Harlot (42 page)

Madame
Rousseau sighed again. "The integrity of the gown, it will be maintained.
Lady Harteford, you will be
très
fashionable
. This you have on the highest authority—my own. Look again, if
you please."

Helena
looked into the glass. The modiste's fingers drifted
a fraction upward. Although reluctant, she was forced to admit that Madame
Rousseau had a point. The alteration was not so great. Truth be told, her
breasts
were
a trifle exposed; having those inches of added protection
would allay her worries about potential malfunctions of the bodice. More to the
point, it would not damage her principles overly to agree to such a change.
Perhaps it might even teach her bull-headed husband a thing or two about
compromise.

She
gave a stiff nod.

"It
is not enough," Nicholas repeated.

Helena
crossed her arms.

"Ah,
but my lord, the gown will now display your lady's charms most modestly,"
Madame said in tones smooth as morning chocolate. "Especially when
compared to what she will wear for your private
tête- à-têtes
."

"I
beg your pardon?" Helena said, frowning.

Madame
Rousseau crossed over to a work table piled high with bolts of cloth. She
returned with a roll of black material. With obvious care, she unrolled a
length and held it up for Nicholas' inspection.

Helena
blinked. The material was not cloth at all, but lace.
Black lace so diaphanous she could see the considering expression crossing her
husband's face.

"This
is the finest lace from Belgium, my lord," Madame Rousseau murmured. "A
clever needle it takes to create magic with it, but of that I am possessed. I
envision a negligee. Something simple, you understand, unfettered, for your
wife to wear during quiet evenings at home. And stockings to match, of course."

Nicholas
cleared his throat. "Stockings, you say?"

"Of
the sheerest black silk," Madame responded. "And, if I may suggest,
satin garters, also black, ornamented with, shall we say, bows of scarlet
ribbon?"

"This
is outrageous," Helena muttered.

Nicholas
shifted his gaze to her. The silver gleam set her stomach aflutter.

"By
all means, then, let us negotiate," he said.

*****

Nodding
to an acquaintance, Nicholas circulated the crowded room in search of his wife.
He smiled with satisfaction when he spotted her standing in a small circle. She
wore one of her new gowns, an elegant burgundy garment with a demure ruffle
along the neckline. He still thought her breasts enticed too much; when she
spoke, he noticed the gentlemen around her paid more attention to her bosom
than her words. Yet compared to the other ladies present, he had to admit she
cut a modest figure. At least, on the surface.

He alone
knew what she wore beneath.

Those
delightful undergarments, compliments of Madame Rousseau, had delayed their
arrival to the salon by over an hour.

Negotiation,
he was discovering, had its benefits.

"Lord
Harteford, well met. How's the head?"

He
turned at the sound of the thick Scottish brogue.

"Dr.
Farraday." He shook hands with the physician. "I did not expect to
see you here."

"I
might say the same for you. Thought you weren't much for society affairs."

"I'm
not, usually. My wife favors this particular salon," Nicholas said.

"Say
no more, lad. 'Tis a wise man who knows when to retreat." Dr. Farraday
bestowed upon him a sympathetic look. "Now, myself, I come from time to
time to hear the lectures. The Misses Berry always invite the cream of the crop
of learned minds. Such a wide variety of topics are presented, and most of them
quite scintillating. What made you of tonight's discussion concerning the
habits of native birds?"

"We
missed it, I'm afraid."

The
doctor's grey brows drew together. "I am sorry for you, lad. 'Tis a pity
to miss so fascinating a subject."

To be
honest, Nicholas did not feel so sorry for himself. He'd wager the bank that he'd
enjoyed himself better than the poor sods stuck here listening to the mating
calls of pheasants. After all, he'd been occupied with mating behavior of his
own. Heat flared at the memory of a certain corset, red as cherries, the way it
had framed his wife's ...

"Though
I am but an amateur naturalist," Dr. Farraday said, "you must allow
me to elucidate some facts for you."

Nicholas
made a noncommittal sound, but it was too late; Dr. Farraday had launched into
a recitation of the lecture. Nodding politely, Nicholas let his mind wander
over the past weeks with Helena. For the first time in memory, he was
experiencing a buoyant lightness of being. As if the stones he had hefted all
his life had dropped magically from his shoulders. Aye, joy. Not just from the
lovemaking, either. The talking, the laughter, the companionship of body and
mind—he had not thought such closeness with another human being possible. At
times, he fancied he and Helena shared the fabric of a single soul.

".
. . to be distinguished from the brown grouse, which has flecks rather than
stripes of white ..."

At other
times, fear would creep up upon him. He could not stop the irrational worries that
would suddenly cloud his mind. What if something were to happen to Helena? What if she should change her mind, see him for what he was? Never before had he
felt a need for another the way he did for her—as if his happiness, his very
life, depended upon her love and affection. He felt consumed by possessiveness
and a primal need to bind her to him in every manner possible. As a
consequence, he found himself acting the role of the over-bearing husband,
scrutinizing her dress and her companions, hovering over her like a hawk. Sighing,
he could only imagine what she thought of his behavior.

"I
can see your sympathy for the hatchlings," Dr. Farraday continued. "Yet,
one must also consider the design of nature, for an offspring to one is
sustenance for another ..."

Overall,
Nicholas thought, Helena had tolerated him with admirable patience. He best not
press his luck concerning her décolletage this evening.

"Harteford,
there you are." Helena came up beside him. Her fingers brushed his upper
arm. Beneath the jacket, his muscles leapt in response. Her touch stirred him
as no other's had or ever would.

"My
love," he said. "You remember Dr. Farraday."

"Yes,
of course. Good evening, sir."

"A
pleasure, my lady." The physician bowed, a stiff, military movement.

"How
kind of you to say so," Helena said. "I am afraid I was rather
overwrought at our last meeting."

"No
need to explain, my lady," Dr. Farraday said. "Circumstances being
such as they were."

"Such
as they were," Helena agreed. "Yet I do apologize for any unseemly
behavior on my part. My husband could not have been in more capable hands."

Dr.
Farraday's posture relaxed. "Thank you, my lady. I, too, am glad to see
Lord Harteford's full recovery."

"And,
now, you must allow me to introduce you both to my dear friends, the Misses
Haversham," Helena said.

As
his wife made the introductions, Nicholas' gaze returned subtly to her neckline.
He felt his blood begin to simmer all over again. He had a mind to get his wife
alone in the not-too- distant future. Alone and naked.

"Harteford,
you must defend me. I am outnumbered."

The
doctor's desperate voice dragged his focus back to the conversation. Standing
between the Havershams, Dr. Farraday looked like a tiger cornered by kittens.

"There
is no defense for your statement, sirrah," Miss Lavinia Haversham said.
She rapped the physician on the knuckles with her fan. Her eyes blazed in her time-worn
face. "A female ring-necked pheasant is as capable of protecting her
chicks as the male is! More so, I daresay. Am I not right, Sister?"

The
other Miss Haversham gave a vigorous nod.

"I
meant only to assert that the male is larger in size and therefore ..."

"What
has size got to do with anything?" Miss Lavinia demanded.

A
choked sound escaped Dr. Farraday.

Nicholas
stifled a laugh.
Out of the mouths of spinsters ...

An
elbow wedged against his ribs.

"You
are absolutely right, Miss Haversham," Helena said, frowning at him. "'Tis
the size of the intellect, not the brute, that matters."

"Exactly
my point, Lady Harteford," Miss Lavinia said.

Nicholas
thought that if Miss Haversham became any more indignant, the smoke rising from
her steely curls might blast her lace cap clear and away. Farraday might have
been of a similar mind, for the doctor wisely stepped beyond the range of her gesticulating
fan.

"The
mother pheasant uses her
sense
to defeat the predator," Miss
Lavinia persevered. "Why, what could be cleverer, more effective, than
faking a broken wing to detract from the brood nearby?"

The
moment her words pierced his consciousness, all traces of humor vanished.

Bloody
hell.

The
truth—had it been staring him in the face all along?

*****

Three
nights later, Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck and stood, stretching his
cramped muscles. The window reflected pure darkness; not even the barges were
visible, though he felt their omnipresence beneath the layers of night and fog.
Removing the watch fob from his waistcoat, he traced his thumb over the filigreed
cover. He was inordinately proud of this new ornament. A fine piece it was,
made finer by the engraving inside.

To
my husband, with love.

The
tiny golden arms winked in the lamplight and indicated the time as half past seven.
He had been so absorbed in his perusal of Kent's notes that he had not noticed
the lateness of the hour. After he had shared his new theory concerning the
warehouse thefts with Kent, the latter had made good on his reputation as a relentless
pursuer of justice.

In
the past two days, the inspector had personally interviewed all the merchants
of the West India Dock and quite a few workers as well. He had taken copious
notes, for a single detail might lead to the suspect. Nicholas himself had
spent the bulk of the day reviewing Kent's organized files. Captured somewhere
within the neat rows of ink was the key to a mystery—he could feel it in his
bones.

A
scuffling noise outside the office had Nicholas tensing. He jerked around as
the door creaked open, his gaze flashing to the bottom desk drawer where he stored
his pistol. His hand shot to the brass pull.

"Lord
Harteford! Begging your pardon, I did not think you were still here."

Nicholas
exhaled and straightened, his hand falling to the side. ""Quite
alright, Jibotts. You gave me a start that is all. Why are you not yet home?"

"Finishing
up on the Rigby account, my lord," Jibotts said, mopping at his brow with
the usual tattered handkerchief. Even in the golden glow, the steward's face
appeared shiny. "The shipment is readied for delivering when Lord Rigby's
man of business presents us with payment."

"Excellent
work as usual, Jibotts."

"Thank
you. Is there anything else I can do before I depart?"

"Just
lock the doors behind you. I will see myself out."

"Very
good, my lord. Good night."

After
Jibotts departed, Nicholas gave a rueful shake of the head. He was abraded by
unease and too edgy by far. He shuffled the papers on his desk, debating between
locking the files in the cabinet and taking them home. Perhaps he could mull
over the details of the case with Helena tonight. He'd shared with her his hunch
that Bragg had not been the only villain involved. It was no doubt unusual to
share so much with one's wife, but his marriage was not proving the usual sort.
Unlike most men of his acquaintance, he enjoyed conversing with his spouse.
Helena, he was learning, had a sharp mind—and a sharp tongue, too, if one
crossed her.

Of course, he had ways of quelling that organ of hers,
of putting it to a different use altogether. Heat unfurled in his belly. His
wife had not been boasting when she professed herself an able student. In her
nightly lessons, she was proving an exceptional protégée
indeed. He crossed the room to the
cabinet and locked the papers inside. Work would wait until the morrow.

Behind
him, the door creaked again.

"Still
here, Jibotts?"

The answering
laugh ran down his spine like an icy hand.

At
the rumble of the man's voice, Helena's hands stilled on the ivory keys. Relief
washed through her. For the past hour, she'd been fretting over Nicholas' unusually
late return from the docks. It hadn't helped that last night she had been
plagued by uncertain dreams. It was all that discussion with Nicholas about
mysterious villains and possible suspects. She'd begged him not to go work
today, but he'd chuckled and told her there was nothing to worry about. He and
Mr. Kent were on the alert. Yet traces of tension had trailed her every movement,
her every thought today.