Her Husband's Harlot (8 page)

"Jeremiah
worked so that you might have the luxuries you take for granted," Nicholas
said acidly.

"Father
worked because he did not know what else to do." Though he said the words
lightly, Paul's characteristically jovial blue eyes were shadowed over the rim
of his cup. "Because he could not stop himself, even when he knew my
mother waited until the candles gutted out for him to come home."

As
Meg returned and plunked down plates heaped high with eggs, bacon, and thick
buttered toast, Nicholas mulled over Paul's words. He had not viewed his mentor
in this light before. To him, Jeremiah had defined purpose and determination. A
man who worked hard to make his life amount to something. A man who could escape
his past by the grace of his own sweat. Yet, remembering his own moments of
restlessness, Nicholas experienced a spark of unease. Was he following in the
footsteps of folly?

He
shook his head. "Anna and Jeremiah had a fine marriage."

"My
parents loved each other, yes, each in their own fashion. When my father was
home, my mother lit up like a candle." Paul's smile was edged with
melancholy as he cut into a rasher of bacon. "It was the other times she'd
be weeping, alone in her bedchamber where she thought no one could hear."

The
image made Nicholas' chest constrict. Anna Fines was the closest to a mother
that he'd known. She'd always made a point of inviting him to supper, knowing
he had no place else to go. He felt a twinge of guilt now; he'd been so tied up
in his own affairs that he had not called upon her since his wedding. "How
is Anna faring?"

"She's
not been the same since Father passed a year ago, as you know. But she is
carrying on. My sister Percy is a great comfort to her, of course. Unlike her
one and only son." Paul chewed thoughtfully. "Mother tells me I am in
danger of becoming a wastrel."

"In
danger
of becoming one?" Nicholas asked, quirking a brow.

"Amusing,
is it not? She says I should talk to you. So you can beat some sense into me, I
suppose. In truth, I think she would like a call from you and your lady ..."
Paul stopped, a tinge of red appearing along his cheekbones. "Scratch that
last part."

"Worried
I'm going to pummel you into a responsible sort?"

"No,
not that part," Paul said. Under his breath, he added, "As
if
you could pummel me."

"Which
then?"

"The
bit about you and your lady calling. Forget I mentioned it, or Mother will have
my head."

"Why
would Anna fault you for inviting us over?" When Paul did not immediately
respond, Nicholas jested, "Is she afraid your table manners will scare
away the fine company?"

His
smile faded at Paul's silence.

"She's
not afraid of having
you
, of course," Paul said with obvious
discomfort. "You may be a marquess now, but you'll always be a nodcock to
us."

Nicholas
ignored the attempt at light-heartedness. "It's Helena, then. Anna objects
to her presence."

"Yes,
but not in the way you mean," Paul protested. "From her brief meeting
with Lady Helena, Mother liked your wife very much."

Nicholas
relaxed a fraction. "What is it, then?"

"Mother
has never entertained a member of the upper class before." Paul shrugged. "She
finds the prospect somewhat intimidating."

Nicholas
ate his eggs and brooded on his friend's admission. It pained him that Anna
would think such a thing. Yet, if he was honest, did he not harbor similar
concerns about how well Helena would get along in his world? She was no
aristocratic snob, to be sure, but her blood lines stretched long and blue. She
had been gently reared, her innocence sheltered. Her sphere was that of the
finest drawing rooms. It was where she belonged.

"Tell
Anna I will call soon," Nicholas said. "She need not concern herself
about rarefied company."

"I
did not mean ..." Paul winced. "That is to say, I am sure your wife
is most welcome."

"I
will come alone."

"Dammit,
Nicholas, that is the problem. You are too much alone. Everyone thinks so: Mother,
Percy, and myself included. Ever since you came into the title and married—"

"No
one can be faulted for that decision but me. I sleep in a bed of my own making,"
Nicholas said.

"And
a pleasant bed it should be." Paul cleared his throat. "Which begs
the question of why you would choose to sleep in a warehouse rather than in the
sumptuous splendor of your marital bower."

Damn Fines'
nosy nature.

"That
is none of your business," Nicholas said in a warning tone.

"I
have never aspired to much, but I do pride myself an expert on the fairer sex.
If you are experiencing any, er, difficulties, I daresay I can help," Paul
said, with no pretensions to modesty.

Which
he didn't need, because everyone knew of Paul's reputation with the ladies, the
term however loosely applied. The man could charm the scales off a snake—and
the skirts off many a female, from the greengrocer's daughter to the bored
solicitor's wife. Paul's affairs never lasted long, but he did seem to possess,
through experience, an intimate knowledge of the female psyche.

"I
lend you my ears, in all their tainted glory," Paul said.

For
an instant, Nicholas considered sharing his marital woes. But the shame of his
actions last evening, and worse further on his wedding night, kept him
imprisoned in silence. He was a beast, a bastard through and through, and there
wasn't a thing anyone could do about it.

He took
one last gulp of coffee, grimly relishing its bitterness. Standing, he
deposited a handful of coins on the table. "I have to get back to work,"
he said.

*****

Nicholas
strode into his office. He'd had enough of the soul-searching and belly-aching;
he intended to bury himself in work. Seeing the new stack of paper on his desk,
he headed over with eager steps. Excellent. The shipping reports. As he reached
for the top page, he felt the blood suddenly drain from his head. An icy hand
clamped around his heart. With shaking fingers, he lifted the scrap of parchment
lying atop the report.

There
was no salutation, no signature, nothing but six words written in neat, black
ink:

I
know your dirty little secret.

The
following afternoon, Helena followed Marianne into a dress shop situated on
fashionable Bond Street. A tiny silver bell tinkled overhead as they entered,
and an assistant dressed all in black came to greet them. As Helena looked
around the front salon, she noted that all the furnishings were done in tones
of white and gold, and the plush carpet was of the palest blue. A bow window
filtered afternoon sunlight into the shop, bathing everything in a mellow glow.
It gave one the impression of stepping into a chamber above the clouds.

The
assistant seated them in delicate gilt chairs and brought tea in paper-thin
porcelain cups. With an eye on the spotless upholstery, Helena gingerly sipped
her beverage. Moments later, Madame Rousseau emerged. The modiste looked as Helena feared she would; small, dark-haired, and relentlessly thin, the Frenchwoman had
snapping black eyes which missed nothing.

"Lady
Marianne, what a pleasure it is, as always," Madame Rousseau said in
softly-accented English. "And today you bring a friend. I am honored to
welcome you to my humble salon."

"Lady
Helena Harteford, may I introduce Amelie Rousseau? Madame Rousseau is the
artiste
behind my fine feathers," Marianne said.

"Beauty
such as Lady Marianne's requires little art," Madame Rousseau murmured. "Merely
the wisdom to allow Nature to shine through. As expected, the daffodil silk most
becomes you, my lady."

Marianne
inclined her head gracefully at the compliment, her fingers brushing lovingly
over the intricate gold-thread embroidery on her skirts.

"May
I suggest, however, a very small adjustment to your ensemble?"

So
saying, Madame Rousseau spoke in rapid French to her assistant. The latter scurried
out of the room and returned shortly to press something into her employer's
hand.

The
modiste motioned Marianne toward a cheval glass. "If I may?"

Reaching
for Marianne's nape, the modiste unclasped the chandelier necklace of amber and
gold. In its stead, she tied a simple ribbon of aquamarine satin.

"
Maintenant, c'est parfait
," Madame Rousseau said.

Helena's
breath caught at the change. Earlier, she had admired Marianne's necklace,
remarking upon how perfectly the dripping mass of golden jewels matched the
yellow silk. Madame Rousseau's action, however, aimed for an entirely opposite
effect. Helena could see now that harmony had dulled rather than elevated her
friend's charms. The new contrast of blue to yellow, of plain to intricate, suggested
a mystery—a hidden vulnerability, perhaps, beneath all the glittering sophistication.
Marianne appeared more enticing than ever.

Watching
her friend preen in front of the mirror, Helena felt twin stabs of desperation and
hope.

"Madame
Rousseau, do you think you can help me?" she blurted.

The
other two women turned to look at her.

Helena
flushed. "I am no beauty like Marianne. But I
would be most appreciative of anything you could do to help me."

"What
she means to say is that she needs a wardrobe to seduce a man," Marianne
said
sotto voce
.

"Ah,
no need to say more.
Je comprends tout
." Madame Rousseau's eyes
gleamed. "For this, we must retire to a private salon. Follow me, please."

The
modiste led them into one of the dressing rooms at the back of the shop.

"Please."
Madame Rousseau gestured for Helena to step onto a small wooden platform
surrounded by mirrors on three sides.

Helena
took a deep breath and did as the dressmaker asked.
Once upon the little stand, she kept her gaze trained on her slippers.

"
Oui
,
I see the problem," Madame said, after several long minutes.

Helena
felt her heart thudding. "Yes, Madame Rousseau?"

"You
hide too much of yourself."

At
that, Helena raised her eyes to the mirror and met the modiste's penetrating
black gaze.

"I
said the same thing," Marianne chimed in.

"To
lure a lover into an intrigue, one must, as the English put it,
set the bait
."
Madame Rousseau circled Helena as she spoke, her eyes darting like curious
fish. With clever hands, she took measure of assets and weaknesses, muttering
to herself all the while. Helena blushed when Madame Rousseau's touch smoothed
over her breasts and hips and dipped lower to cup her bottom.

"'Tis
not a lover she hopes to seduce, but her husband," Marianne said.

"Your
husband!" Madame Rousseau stopped circling. "Lady Harteford, I see
that you are a woman of many surprises.
Alors,
you must tell me all as I
work my magic."

*****

Sometime
later, Helena found herself sitting opposite Marianne in the latter's smart
barouche. With a contented sigh, she sank back against the lavender velvet squabs.
Madame Rousseau had lived up to her reputation as the finest modiste in all of London. If these gowns did not entice Nicholas, nothing would. Madame had even agreed to
rush the order so that Helena could have the first of her new dresses within
the week.

"Do
you think Harteford will like my new gowns, Marianne?"

"I
should hope so, given the exorbitant sum he paid for them," Marianne said.

Helena's
brow furrowed. "Do you think I was too extravagant? I have never opened an
account before, but Madame Rousseau said that is how all the ladies handle
their transactions. Perhaps I ought to have adhered to the allowance I have on
hand."

"Do
stop fretting. If Harteford can afford fifty pounds for a whore, he can
certainly provide his wife
carte blanche
."

Helena
grimaced. Marianne was never one to mince words.

The
barouche turned onto
Upper Brook Street
and
rolled to a stop in front of the townhouse. On impulse, Helena threw her arms
around her friend. "Oh, Marianne, however am I to thank you?"

"Dearest,
your happiness is thanks enough," the other said in amused tones, even as
she extricated herself from the hug. "Besides, I am not finished with you
yet."

"What
do you mean?"

"Today
was mere window dressing. Surely you do not think a few dresses will be enough
to win your husband's interest."

Helena
bit her lip. She had hoped ... she chided herself for being naive. "What else
do you suggest, Marianne?"

"You
will have to learn the secrets of flirtation, of course. And I think you could brush
up on your knowledge of the sexual arts," Marianne said matter-of-factly. "I
know just the place for you to learn both. The proprietress throws parties of
such depravity that even
I
blush—"