Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (32 page)

“So who is this fellow you hired to spy on my wife?”

“Someone who does the occasional odd job for me.”

“And you trust him?”

“With my life.”

“Just as I trust my wife.”

“If you did, you’d not be in this coach.” Ainsley’s gaze came to bear hard on him, and it was Stephen who now glared out the window.

The scar on the side of his face throbbed. It had been ages since he’d felt it at all. Even his leg had begun to ache, as though whatever miracle had settled in to lessen his hurts was turning into mist and drifting away. He should order the damned coach turned about.

Instead he stayed as he was, rigid and stiff, his mind wandering over the past six months, and wishing to God the memories recently created were enough to fill in the emptiness left by those he’d lost.

The coach rolled to a stop in front of a terraced house with an elegant façade. The rent would have been a pretty penny, but as Ainsley had pointed out, Dearbourne had an abundance of pretty pennies to shower on his mistress.

Ainsley disembarked and stared back at Stephen. “The reports I’ve read of your exploits indicate you weren’t a coward.”

Stephen studied the exterior of the building. It suddenly seemed foreboding. A bad idea to enter it. “Why are you insisting upon this?”

“Because I believe you need to know the truth.”

“And you already know it?”

“No. Not everything.”

“What is it you suspect?”

Ainsley sighed deeply and spoke as somberly as one might at a funeral. “You’ve been swindled.”

“Of what, for God’s sake? I have little enough—”

“Your heart.”

S
tanding in the grand entryway, at that moment, Stephen despised his brother. He’d always resented him, welcomed the opportunity to best him at everything possible, but he’d never loathed him with a passion that had him trembling. Every muscle tensed in order not to reveal his reaction. His leg ached, and he wished he’d brought his walking stick. He was not going to limp into this preposterous interview, or whatever the devil it was that Ainsley had arranged.

He heard the quiet footfalls on the stairs and glanced up to see Fancy, packaged in red silk, gliding down them. Her ebony hair, still abundantly thick, was pinned up in an elegant style that revealed the sensual slope of her neck. She was designed to attract a man’s attention and clasp it close until she tired of him. The blue of her eyes was so deep and rich as to appear violet. He’d never seen eyes her shade before he’d met her. They were exotic, enticing. They promised a man heart-thundering, bone-melting passion. She’d become a courtesan of the highest regard. Each sensual movement of her body confirmed it. He’d taught her well. He could see Ainsley struggling to remain immune. Oddly, Stephen found himself occupied by a rather strange thought: Why the devil hadn’t she shorn her hair while she was in the East?

“Your Grace,” she said softly, with a curtsy. “Sir Stephen. What a surprise and a pleasure that you’ve come to call. My benefactor will be arriving shortly, so I have not much time to visit. How may I be of service?”

Stephen glared at Ainsley. “This was your bloody idea.”

Fancy’s eyes widened slightly, and she indicated another room. “Please make yourselves comfortable in the parlor. I’ll ring for tea.”

“This isn’t exactly a social call,” Ainsley said. “But it would be a good idea to go into the parlor and close the doors.”

Stephen couldn’t recall ever seeing Fancy disconcerted, but she gave a good show of appearing nonplussed as she escorted them into the parlor. As soon as the doors were closed, Ainsley’s gentlemanly façade slipped away and he attacked.

“We’re aware that you’re meeting Lady Lyons every Tuesday afternoon at Cremorne Gardens. We’re also aware that the purpose of the encounter is so that she may pay you a handsome sum. What silence is she paying you to keep?”

Fancy visibly paled, her hands shook, and her eyes misted over as she looked at Stephen. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice broke. “I should have stood up to her, but she threatened to destroy me if I told you the truth.”

“And what truth is that?” Stephen asked, already weary of the theatrics.

“I gave birth to a son in Paris. It was a difficult birth. Your wife stole him from me when I was too weak to stop her. The boy she claims is hers, your son . . . he is mine.”

Chapter 22

S
tephen stood beside the crib, staring down at his son. It was long past midnight. He’d awoken the nurse and told her to find comfort elsewhere. He was just drunk enough after stopping at the club with Ainsley to not give a damn about his rudeness.

His mind was foggy from too much drink and the red haze of betrayal. So much made sense. Her encouraging him not to remember the past. Had they been involved at all? Had he ever taken her to his bed? Not according to Fancy.

So little made sense. Fancy had told them that she’d been taking the money Mercy offered because she feared if she didn’t Mercy wouldn’t believe her claims that she’d not reveal that she was John’s mother. Mercy was checking on her, had hired someone to keep watch on her activities. In addition, she took the money because she was terrified that Mercy would turn on her, would destroy her as she threatened.

“I must prepare for a rainy day because when it comes it will be a raging storm.”

She’d wept when she’d recounted how she’d awoken one morning to find the babe gone. “I should have known she’d taken it to use to her advantage.”

He’d almost retorted that John wasn’t an “it”—something Mercy would have no doubt jumped on like a bird on a bug.

The boy awoke with wide eyes and a wail—just as his mother had on numerous nights. Horrors from the war, she’d claimed. Or had it been guilt that had prodded her restless nights?

Stephen touched his finger to John’s cheek. “Shhh, now. All will be right soon.”

The child quieted.

“You know my voice, don’t you? You know who I am. Do you know your mother, I wonder? Your true mother.”

“I didn’t know you were home.”

His body, traitor that it was, reacted instantly to the sleepy rasp of her voice. His heart felt like a painful block of ice. He didn’t turn. He couldn’t. Every nerve ending he possessed might be calling out for him to take her in his arms, but he wouldn’t. He never would again.

“What are you doing?” she asked softly, coming up behind him, flattening her palm to his back. He stiffened at the familiar touch that had the power to send him beyond the edge of desire.

“Studying my son’s eyes.”

“I think they’re exactly like yours.”

“I think they favor his mother’s more. A subtle difference in blue. Almost violet.”

Her fingers jerked against his back, right before her hand fell away. He turned to face her then. She appeared drained of blood, almost as white as the silk of her nightdress.

“I know everything, Mercy,
everything
.”

* * *

H
is voice was as frigid as the winters in the Crimea. It froze the blood in her veins. The hatred and disgust in his eyes shattered her heart. He couldn’t know, he couldn’t possibly.

“You remember?” she whispered.

He released a harsh laugh. “I only just realized that there is always a frisson of fear accompanying those words whenever you voice them. Now I know why. No, my little cunning wife, I do not remember my time in the Crimea. I do not remember you.”

She forced out the words. “She told you.”

“In spite of your threat to destroy her. Try to carry through on it, and it is I who will destroy you.”

He made no sense. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

“I know, Mercy, I know that you stole the babe—”

“What? No, she abandoned John, left him with me one morning never to return. She wanted nothing to do with him.”

She thought she detected a dimming in his anger and hope flared like a newly lit flame.

“Then why didn’t you tell me this in the beginning?” he demanded, his voice still harsh, hurt.

She wanted to touch him, to comfort him, to soothe him. But he was not touchable. Everything in his stance yelled for her to retreat, to steer clear of him. But she could not. For John’s sake, for her love of him, she would face down Lucifer himself.

“Because I was afraid you’d take him from me, and I love him so very, very much. I could not love him more if I had, in fact, given birth to him.”

“You lied, Mercy. Our whole marriage is based on lies.”

“No!” She reached out to touch him, jerked back her hand, curled her fingers until her nails bit into her palms. John began crying. The child had to be sensing the tension shimmering between her and Stephen. It was thick enough to pierce with a bayonet. “I never lied to you. Not once. I never claimed to have given birth to John. I only said I was his mother. In my heart, the words were true.”

“Lies. Dress them up as you will, deny it if you want, but no honesty exists between us. You forced me to marry you.”

Frantically, she shook her head. “I never demanded that you marry me.”

“But you ensured that I would ask. With your innocence and your constant nearness. Were the nightmares even real, or just a means to get me into your bed?”

John was wailing now, his screams for attention making it difficult to think, to determine how best to convince him that she’d not come to him with ulterior motives.

“How can you doubt me so? How can you think so poorly of me?”

“You never wanted me to remember. You did nothing to help me remember!” He hit his balled fist on the side of the crib.

John shrieked. Mercy had enough. She shoved Stephen aside and lifted John into her arms, cuddling him close.

“Answer me this, did I ever make love to you in Scutari?” he asked.

Knowing what it would cost her, the dear price she would pay, still she could not lie to him. So she said nothing.

He barked out harsh laughter. “That’s the reason you didn’t want me to remember. Because then I would know that you were not his mother, that this wondrous night you spoke of was nothing but fiction.”

“It was real. It happened. You stayed with me, you comforted me. We just didn’t—” She shook her head. “It was all innocent.”

“Damn you, damn you to hell for giving me a false memory. You have a week to say good-bye to him, and then I want you gone,” Stephen commanded, his voice seething with barely controlled rage.

Mercy went numb with disbelief. “You’re banishing me?”

“From my life and his. Fancy is his mother. By God, she shall have him back.”

“And you? You are what she wants. Now that you are knighted, now that she may be a lady. She cares not one whit for this child.”

“She claims differently. And she will help me remember. She will tell me everything of our time in the East. Memories will spark. I will regain what I have lost.”

“Why do you believe her and not me?”

“Because I knew her before I left for the Crimea. I knew her well. You, madam, I know not at all.”

He spun on his heel and charged from the room as though the Russians waited in the hallway to engage him in battle. She wanted to call after him, rush after him, grab him—

But her battered pride kept her rooted to the spot. With tears pouring down her face, she crushed John to her. Stephen had ripped out her heart. And in a week, it would be irrevocably lost to her when her dear, sweet child was taken from her arms.

Chapter 23

S
tephen left orders with three footmen and two housemaids that one of them was to be watching Mercy at all times, and under no circumstances was John to leave the residence. He didn’t trust her any farther than he could throw her.

He didn’t trust himself either. Not to crawl back to her, not to curl around her and apologize, not to forgive her. So he’d taken himself to London, to Ainsley’s residence, where he could indulge in fine liquor and brood to his heart’s content. He knew he’d been rash in giving her a full week to say good-bye. He should have given her a day. An hour. Half that.

Damnation, he wanted her gone because she preyed on his mind. How could he have come to love such a deceitful wench?

“This residence does have other rooms, you know,” Ainsley said as he strode across the library and dropped into the chair across from Stephen.

Stephen hoisted his glass, downed its contents, and refilled it. “This room suits.”

“You’ve been here for three days. You’re starting to reek.”

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, Stephen studied the whiskey, the color of her eyes. He would always think of her when he indulged in his favorite drink. “Irony. I finally have something that I wish to forget, and I don’t think I’ll be able to.”

“Mercy?”

He lifted his gaze to his brother’s before returning it to study the glass. “Her eyes are this color, you know. When I hold it up to the light”—he demonstrated—“I can see her happy. And when I bring it back to the shadows, I can see the pain that I inflicted on her with our final parting.”

“You’re not going to see her again?”

He shook his head. “I left instructions with Spencer. He’s to give her a thousand pounds, put her in a carriage, deliver her to London, and let her make her own way.”

“What of Fancy?”

“I shall move her into Roseglenn.”

“Without benefit of marriage?”

“A divorce is not easily obtained.”

“Is that what you desire?”

“I want to be rid of her.”

Ainsley scraped the edge of his thumb over the arm of the chair, creating an irritating rasping that Stephen fought to ignore. “What if . . . she was telling the truth?”

“About?”

“About Fancy leaving the boy with her.”

“It would be impossible to prove. So it is one woman’s word against another’s.”

“You choose to believe Fancy?”

“She may be a bit o’muslin, but she’s always been honest. Mercy lied about her relationship to the child; she led me to believe we had a night together, which we did not. She deceived me into marrying her.”

“I don’t think it would be impossible to find out what really happened in Paris. I could send a man over, have him make inquiries. Jeanette might know where they resided.”

“It’s been months. Who would remember her?”

“A woman with hair the unusual shade of hers? She may not be a great beauty, but she is hardly forgettable.”

“And yet I forgot her.”

“You forgot everything.”

Stephen narrowed his eyes, studied his brother, who had once again taken to scratching at the chair. He’d never known Ainsley to be uncomfortable. Nervous. It didn’t signify. “Damn it. You’ve already sent a man.”

“I didn’t see the harm.”

“Why are you trying to prove her right? You’ve mistrusted her from the beginning.”

“From the beginning I sensed that something was off. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. So yes, I distrusted her. Yes, I was searching for proof that my instincts were right. But to steal the babe in order to force you into marriage? She thought you were dead. I saw her face when she learned you were alive. She was truly shocked and . . . immensely relieved.”

“Fancy is right. She stole the babe for gain. She came to you wanting money.”

“Her father wanted money. All she asked was to be allowed to remain as the child’s nanny.”

The same thoughts that had been swirling through his mind with the whiskey. He’d been so angry, felt so betrayed . . . dishonesty marred her actions.

“She said she loved John, didn’t tell me the truth because she thought she could only assure that she remained in his life if we thought she was his mother,” Stephen muttered.

“Perhaps we should not have been so quick to draw conclusions.”

“Have you talked with Mother about this situation?”

“She’s off enjoying the waters with Lady Lynnford.”

“That does not mean you’ve not told her.”

“You are a suspicious soul.”

“Because those around me are continually conniving and plotting.” He tossed back his whiskey. “Let me know the moment your man returns.”

He refilled his glass and moved it from shadow to light, light to shadow. Sadness to joy. Laughter to tears. Despair to hope. Love to emptiness.

A
s Mercy packed the last of her belongings into the trunk, she admitted that seven days had not been nearly enough time, but she had crammed a lifetime of memories into them. She sang lullabies to John and allowed him to sleep in the bed with her. With footmen dogging her footsteps, she strolled with him through the garden and showed him a newly forming bud. He could not have cared less, but he gurgled anyway. Spring would soon be upon them. Jeanette would be staying on, and she promised to send reports. It was even possible that their paths might cross in a park or two.

She considered fighting for her right to stay, trying again to convince Stephen that she had not deceived him. But she couldn’t remain here as his wife. He, who had promised on a cold night a lifetime ago to never harm her, had effectively and with harsh words broken that promise. She considered telling him, but she had no desire to add to the memory of that night that she’d already given him.

It no longer mattered which of their behaviors was the most egregious. They had both wronged each other. Their pasts—what she remembered, what he did not—made matters all the worse. She could see no hope for reconciliation. And so she saw no reason to stay.

She would not allow John to grow up in a household where his father despised his mother. He would not lack for love. He would receive plenty from Jeanette in that regard. And Fancy would no doubt ignore him for the most part. Which in all likelihood was for the best.

It cut her deeply to think of Fancy warming Stephen’s bed, and so she shoved it from her mind as she had cast out other painful memories. They would no doubt visit when she slept, and she’d not have Stephen to make them retreat. But she would find a way to deal with it.

Adversity had strengthened her. She would survive.

A rap sounded and the door opened. The maid curtsied. “M’lady, the carriage is waiting. James is here to take your trunk down.”

“He may have it.” She walked from the room and down the hallway to the nursery.

Jeanette stopped bouncing John on her lap. “This is not fair.”

“Fair is what we make it.” She lifted John into her arms and swayed back and forth. “Oh, my precious boy, I shall miss you. Your father is a good man, even if he is amazingly stupid. Know I shall always be with you.”

She kissed his brow, then hugged Jeanette, wanting John close to her for as long possible. She considered taking him down the stairs, but she was on the verge of tears. Nothing would be gained by delaying the inevitable. She returned him to Jeanette’s waiting arms.

“Take good care of my precious child. Love him as though he were your own.”

With tears clouding her eyes, Jeanette nodded. Mercy straightened her spine, the better to bear the weight of her burden, and strode from the room.

She was halfway down the stairs when she saw Stephen standing in the entry hallway. Sunlight poured in through the windows and created a halo around his handsome form, making him appear to be some sort of angel. One night he had been her avenging angel.

But she could tell by the set of his jaw, the hardness in his eyes, that he’d not be saving her today. She came to a stop before him. She wanted to hate him with every fiber of her being, but she couldn’t. She owed him too much. And somewhere buried within the shards of her heart was one remnant that still beat for him and him alone.

They stared at each other for a moment that seemed to stretch into years.

Finally, he removed an envelope from his jacket pocket. “A thousand pounds to help you get settled somewhere.”

“Keep it. Use it to pay for the silver I stole.”

“Mercy, you can’t leave here with nothing.”

“I leave with my pride.” She swept around him and marched out the door, down the steps, a steady refrain pounding with each landing of her shoes that took her farther from her child.

I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.

With her head held high, she approached the waiting carriage.

“Mercy?”

Taking in a shuddering breath, she shored up her resolve, her strength to once again face him. She spun around.

For a heartbeat, he seemed uncertain standing there. “Why did you keep John?”

“I’ve already told you. Because he was part of you.”

“And if I’d not married you?”

“I find it a trivial waste of time to speculate on what might have been or might not have been.”

He wasn’t happy with her answer. He’d wanted more. She no longer cared what he wanted.

“When you are settled, please send word where you are,” he said. “It will make things easier if I know how my solicitor may get in touch as we seek to separate our lives.”

A divorce then. He was going to divorce her. More shame and humiliation. She’d borne much worse.

She angled her chin. “I have a wish for you, dear husband. I pray you never remember what happened in Scutari. For if you do, you will never forgive yourself.”

She swiftly turned and, with the help of the footman, climbed into the carriage. She didn’t glance out the window as the carriage rolled by. She didn’t want her last image to be of Stephen standing forlorn in the drive or of Jeanette standing at an upstairs window holding John close.

But with each clop of the horses’ hooves that took her away, she felt her strength seeping out of her. By the time they turned onto the main road, she was sobbing inconsolably. She’d never felt such pain, and she’d suffered greatly in the past. But this was worse than anything she’d ever experienced. She didn’t know how she’d survive it.

Suddenly there was a shout. “Halt! Hold up there!”

The carriage came to a thundering stop. Was it highwaymen?

Oh, dear God, not brutes, not again. The door swung open, she screamed at the top of her lungs, and lunged toward the shadowy figure.

“Hey! Here now,” he said, grabbing her wrists, pulling her close, stilling her actions. “Lady Lyons. It’s me, Leo.”

Recognizing the voice now, she sagged against him. “I’m sorry. You must think me a ninny.” She looked up into his kind face. He grinned.

“I suspect you’ve had a very upsetting day.” He handed her his handkerchief. “Come along with me, the duchess wishes to see you.”

“I have no desire for further chastisement.”

“My dear girl, she intends to provide you with sanctuary.”