Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress (8 page)

Joss indicated a bewigged elderly man the shape of a kettledrum, hitching himself along with the aid of two canes. “What of him? With that expression of good cheer, he would doubtless treat you with great solicitude.”

“You are terrible. That man is as fluffy-haired and fat as a pregnant sheep.”

“Good heavens, you are particular,” Joss chided. “I thought you wished only for someone to perform a service for you. Must he be as good-looking as all that?”

“I would prefer he not be painful to look upon.”

“You underestimate the importance of an expression of good cheer,” Joss said. “But let us pass on. What about the light-haired fellow swinging his cane about with such spirit?”

The object of Joss's comment was clearly a dandy, and something in his appearance set her on edge at once. Maybe it was the man's ringlets or his wasp-waisted coat or the smug expression on his indolent features.

Augusta pretended not to notice as her parasol knocked against Joss's hat. “What an excellent suggestion,” she cooed. “He
is
handsome. And well-dressed, too. Should I speak to him? No, I suppose you'd best introduce us.”

“Please cease beating me with your parasol.” With a determined gesture, Joss tugged the parasol from Augusta's grasp and folded it shut. “Your bonnet is large enough to shield you and several other individuals from the sun. You've no need of this. And I am devastated to learn that Mrs. Flowers does not number an understanding of satire among her virtues.”

“Of course she doesn't. She's too cheerful for satire.” Augusta snatched back her parasol and held it sideways in her lap, a feminine bayonet. “To what do you refer?”

“I was
not
serious when I suggested the light-haired fellow. Well-dressed, indeed. His coat shoulders are as padded as his calves. Only imagine bringing him to your bedchamber, then gaping in dismay as his fine figure is left on the floor for a valet to pick up.”

“You're saying things you ought not to say again.” Her cheeks felt as pink as one of the blown roses scattered over her gown. Saying what he ought not to say, yes—because the man she pictured in her bedchamber was Joss, and the form about which she wondered was his. No padding filled out the shoulders of his black coat, well cut but not tailored for his form. The thin knit of his trousers, snug over muscular thighs; the worn leather of his boots—he was unpretentious, unconcerned, and unimpressed.

And she was beginning to fear he would spoil her for other men.

He spoke again. “Here's a promising prospect. Do look at that fellow with his hair tugged back into a queue. Like a pirate, wouldn't you say? He could drag you off to the docks and ravish—”

“Stop.” She cut him off. “You are no help at all. Keep silent until I identify someone whose appearance is acceptable to me, and then you may tell me if you know anything to his discredit.”

Joss folded his arms.

“What? Nothing sarcastic to say by way of reply?”

He lifted one shoulder, a Gallic-looking gesture of complete nonchalance.

“
Now
he becomes obedient,” Augusta muttered. “Very well. That man. Do you know anything of him?” Her gesture was broad and almost random, like a tired swimmer pulling for a faraway shore.

Fortunately, there was a man in her path to intercept it. A somewhat handsome, somewhat well-dressed man with somewhat dark hair, promenading along the path with a somewhat languorous air. And a great rose pinned to his lapel.

There. He was perfect for Mrs. Flowers, who had only somewhat of a personality.

“He'll never do for Mrs. Flowers.” Lips unsealed by her question, Joss spoke with certainty. “That man is a cheat. I saw him outside the White Hart yesterday, trying to swindle a Bath chair carrier by arguing the distance. He was wearing a hothouse flower then too.”

This last was spoken in a tone of scorn.

“There is nothing wrong with roses,” Augusta said. “Or with looking out for one's own interests.”

“Indeed there is not. But there is a difference between asserting oneself and flying into a temper, and this man did the latter. You would not wish for an argumentative lover, would you?”

“I do not see that it would be much of a problem, as speech is not the principal purpose of encounters with a lover.”
Ruby
or
garnet
. Were Emily here, she would surely make a pronouncement on the color of Augusta's cheeks.

“Even so, I think it shows a certain lack of attention to the finer feelings of others. Only imagine: ‘No, Mrs. Flowers, we shall do it my way.' Or, ‘That will do for today, Mrs. Flowers. I've taken my pleasure. Stop pestering me.'”

My
way. Pleasure.
Her nipples went tight and hard. “You
must
stop telling me to imagine such things.”

“Must I? Ah, well. If you insist.”

How could he sound so bland? How could he remain so unaffected?

And why did she let him tease her, unsettling her so? She had let the rose-lapelled man—had let a dozen men—pass by without so much as trying to catch their eyes. Either she truly put her trust in Joss's opinion, or…

No. There was no reason to trust him so much, nor to change her plans now. But her dithering emotions proved that it was past time to retake control of the conversation.

Deliberately, she drew the folded parasol across her lap, then set it aside on the bench. “Mr. Everett. Joss. Have you ever taken a lover?”

Aha.
At last she won a victory over his calm: Joss twitched, a small but unmistakable fidget of gloved hands. “I am quite sure, my dear fake widow, that
you
ought not to be speaking this way to
me
.”

Augusta remembered how effective Paynter's silence had been on Joss. She simply waited for a further reply, and at last he let out a breath that seemed to draw from the worn toes of his Hessians. “I suppose you might call them lovers, yes.”

“Them?” The word made her want to throw something. Maybe him.

He removed his hat, letting the breeze ruffle his black hair. “More than one. Not many more. It matters not. I meant little to them and they meant little to me.”

“How
could
you?” What she did not add—but wanted to with a deep, jealous yearning—was,
And
how
could
you
deny
me?

Joss shut his eyes, tilting his face to the chill sun. When he spoke, his voice had gone brittle and sharp. “I could because there was always the hope of meaning. Of love grown from pleasure. But it never grew. I was not what they wanted, and vice versa.” He leveled a stern look at her. “Never did I dally with a maiden. Never would I, never will I. And you have made quite clear to me, Madame All in a Huff of a Sudden, that you do not wish for any meaning in your chosen encounter.”

“I am not in a huff,” Augusta said. “At least, not all of a sudden. I simply wondered.”

And just like that, his calm was back. With the languid indifference of a cat, he stretched out his arms, then crammed his hat atop his head. “It's all right; you only caught me by surprise. But you may wonder whatever you like. I know quite well you don't want me; you just want
someone
. What about that fellow?”

The fellow in question—a passing gentleman she had never seen before—had shining Hessians and a beautifully tailored coat. He also had bandy legs, nothing like the sleek line of muscled thigh that filled Joss's pantaloons.

“Not handsome enough,” she said, not daring to look at Joss.

“Ah, yes. Your unwonted particularity. With the lights out, would his appearance really matter?” He sighed. “I do hope you will make your lover wear a French letter.”

“A—what?”

When she glanced at him, curious, color stained his cheekbones. “It's a sort of sheath. For your protection against…well. I am, as you said, quite sure I ought not to be speaking this way to you.”

“No,” she said faintly. Somehow, as she went colder and colder at her extremities, her core burned hotter, as though Joss drew all the heat from her and worked it into a tight, pulsing ball at her center. She squirmed on her seat, wanting to study him, to learn the ingredients that made him so…so
Joss
.

This was only natural, wasn't it? For how many lotions and skin creams had she studied the formulas? Yes, that was it. His presence was just another unguent, something she could wash her hands of if it grew too overpowering.

“So we pass along to the third name on your list. Lord Whittingham.” He spoke as though they had parsed no passersby as suitable lovers; as though they'd discussed nothing at all improper and had only just seated themselves on this bench to enjoy the rare clear weather. “I believe our quarry—I mean, honored guest—draws near. He told me I might know him by his height.”

This was a kind way of putting the matter, for Lord Whittingham stood no more than five feet tall. Augusta had not seen the viscount for nearly a decade, but little about his appearance had changed. His skin was more tanned, his thin face more lined, but he was as impeccable as always in bottle-green wool and a gilt-striped waistcoat. His clothing tended to be beautifully tailored and of a startling pattern, as though fabric that caught the eye would make sure his small form was not overlooked.

As Augusta and Joss stood to greet him, Whittingham's face creased into a smile of such glee that one could not help but share in it. “If it isn't Augusta Meredith, as I live and breathe,” he said, shaking her hand warmly. “Mr. Everett told me an old acquaintance of mine might be accompanying him, but I never imagined it would be you. I haven't seen you since you were a girl. My, my, how pretty you've turned out.”

He looked up at her, chucking her under the chin, and Augusta had to laugh as she returned his greeting.

“But what's this I hear?” He pulled a frown. “My dear young friend has got married and saved me none of the cake?”

“Oh, I'm not married.” Augusta had thought over this inevitable question and her planned answer during the Bath chair ride to the gardens. The risk-mad Whittingham traveled a great deal now that Waterloo and peace had flung open the barred doors of the Continent. He might not know whether his old compatriot's friend was wed or widowed, neither or both. Though the dodge had not worked with Joss, it was worth a try with Whittingham. Though she would not lie, she would allow him to fill in the gaps.

And indeed he did. “A widow! How dreadful, my dear; you have my condolences. Out of mourning, though, I see. I'm glad you've found such a handsome fellow to console you.” He bowed to Joss, who had fallen back a step. “Rather dark, aren't you, Everett? Have you Spanish blood? I was in Spain not long ago.”

“Ah—no, I haven't any Spanish ancestry, my lord,” Joss said. “And I am desolated to admit that you mistake the nature of my escort. I serve only as our lovely friend's chaperone.”

Whittingham laughed, a silvery sound of consummate elegance, as he turned away. “Indeed? She's safe enough from me, but I suppose there are plenty of men in Bath who would like to hang upon her skirts.” He tucked his Malacca cane under one arm and offered the other to Augusta. “Suppose we walk about a bit, Augusta, and you tell me what's on your mind.” Raising a hand to his lips in theatrical surprise, he added, “
Mea
culpa
; I'm meant to hear what's on Mr. Everett's mind, am I not? Well, Augusta, you must join me in listening.”

“I'm not much good at that,” Augusta laughed.

“Quite true.” Joss cleared his throat, then offered Augusta his arm as well. She stood between them—peacock and raven—in a welter of flowers. What a trio they must make.

The principal walkway through the gardens sloped gently uphill to a pavilion, and they followed the path with slow strides. Despite his promise to listen, Whittingham bubbled with conversation. His recent travels had led him across France, into bits of Spain and Portugal, and then, “Home, alas. I mean, ‘at last,' of course. Dear me, I ought to sound more pleased about being on my home shores, ought I not?”

“Not if they do not truly feel like home,” Joss said.

Whittingham leaned forward to peer at Joss as they walked. “Well put, Mr. Everett. You almost sound as if you've found yourself in the same predicament.”

Beneath Augusta's fingertips, the corded muscles of Joss's arm tensed.

“And how is Lady Whittingham?” Augusta asked brightly.

The viscount accepted the turn of subject. “More than fair. She's been amusing herself in my absence. Sauce for the goose, you know. Or is my wife the gander? I never can recall.”

In comparison to her diminutive husband, Lady Whittingham was a positive Amazon. She and her husband lived separate lives, which suited them both quite well. The fact of their marriage was enough to silence those who had wondered whether his lordship was perhaps spending too much time with the attractive eldest son of the Earl of Mowbray.

“You are the gander, of course.” Augusta gave his arm a quick squeeze. “Though I hope you are not sauced at this hour.”

“If I am—which I'm not, for drunkenness doesn't match this waistcoat—it would be only too just. I am, alas, completely ruined.”

“You already said ‘alas' once.” Joss released Augusta's arm, dropping back again as they crunched down the neatly laid path.

The viscount swung his cane in a wide arc. “It's a marvelous word. Alas, alas. It gives all the flavor of genuine sorrow without requiring a bit of real feeling.”

Augusta smiled. “I should stuff the two of you into a cage and let you battle.”

“Stuffed in a cage with your handsome so-called chaperone? You tempt me grievously, young Augusta.”

From a step behind them, there issued a sound that bore a strong resemblance to a snort.

Augusta picked up the dropped thread of conversation that accompanied the last
alas.
“But what's this about being ruined, my lord? If you are truly out of pocket, London's tailors will be weeping their eyes out.”
And
you
will
never
be
able
to
help
Joss—that is, Sutcliffe.

“Not to mention the boot makers,” added the viscount. “I would be in tears myself if my new wardrobe hadn't been delivered just before I left France. But that's the tragedy: I've tied up a fortune in France, and my ship has not come in. Quite literally. The
Barbacoa
was laden with silks and expected in Nice a month ago. If she's sunk, so am I.”

“You seem untroubled by the fact,” Joss observed.

“What is there to trouble me? Where one fortune vanishes, another shall appear. Quite soon, I hope, or a marvelous tailor on the
Rue
de
la
Crème
shall have me strung up for debt.” Over his shoulder, Whittingham wiggled his cane. “Enough of such talk, now. 'Tis a beautiful day. You, Mr. Everett, seem untroubled—or undelighted, ought I to say—to be walking right behind a lovely woman whose backside you can watch. Or perhaps I ought not to have said that.”

“Oh, you definitely ought to have said it,” Joss replied. “Is Mrs. Flowers turning red? I do so love it when she turns red.”

Whittingham peered up at Augusta from under the brim of his swooping plumed hat. “A ripe shade,” he said. “Like a cranberry.”

She pulled her arm free. “I'm going to push you both into the canal.”

“I haven't swum in ages! It would be delightful.” Whittingham beamed at Augusta.

“Very bracing,” Joss agreed.

Thus meandered their conversation along with their steps. It was impossible not to be carried along by the viscount's flighty cheer.

As they walked, Whittingham inevitably drew a crowd about him. Beautiful clothes, an unusual stature, and a carrying voice were an irresistible combination, and several jovial acquaintances of the viscount located the walking party and fell into step with them. As one after another joined them, worry began to curl up Augusta's spine. With a crowd around, with Whittingham knowing who she was—somewhat—the chance seemed too great that she would slip, that everyone would learn who she was, that she should not have come.

And the risk was all to no purpose. If Whittingham was ruined, their errand had failed.

There was nothing to do but smile more brightly and talk less and less. Just agree; just smile, pleasant and bland, and nod at each introduction. A young married couple who finished one another's sentences with nauseating delight. A woman with dyed hair and far too much rouge who was probably a Cyprian. A trio of blue-coated dandies.

After greeting Whittingham, these last shuttled around Augusta, separating her from the viscount as they argued over who would take her arm.

“Any friend of Whittingham's and whatnot. She shall be mine,” quoth one in a tremulous tone. “A bloom on her lips, an ornament on my arm. Mr. Pettigrew at your service, dear lady.”

“How nice to make your acquain—”

“Dash it.” The second, the tallest of the three, speared the first with a scornful glance. “The blooms are on her gown, not her lips. If you haven't eyes in your head, you shouldn't escort such a pretty woman.” With set jaw, this second snapped her hand from the first's grasp and tucked it into his. “And judging from the way you've tied your cravat, you
haven't
eyes in your head, Mr. Pettigrew. Madam, permit me to introduce myself. Mr. Protheroe.”

“It's a pleasure to meet—”

“Fine talk from someone who pads the shoulders of his coat.” The third took Augusta's other hand, dragging their progress to a halt. “Mr. Petersham, ma'am. I assure you—”

“Nothing!” Pettigrew yanked at Augusta's elbow. “Your assurances are worth nothing, you…you…poacher of manservants!”

“Lies!” Petersham went white about the nostrils as he yanked Augusta toward him. “Your manservant begged me to leave your service for mine. At last he has an employer capable of keeping the gloss on his boots for more than a half hour!”

A shocked intake of breath all around and then a clamor. Yanking hands and raised voices, the cultured tones ringing with disgust as the dandies glared at one another. At the center, polite phrases withered on Augusta's lips—phrases that would surely have gone unheard.

Had this happened on the stage, she would have chuckled. Had it happened in a crowded ballroom, she would have felt triumphant. But to be at the center of a clamor in a sedate public garden? No. Mrs. Flowers could not afford to become a spectacle.

Her heart began to thud, heavy and incoherent, beneath the flowered wall of her gown. Whittingham had walked ahead, in conversation with the Cyprian, and—where was Joss? She was penned in by a wall of strangers. The phlox at her breast seemed cloying in their sweet honey scent, and the voices around her filled the leaden sky.

“I feel faint,” she blurted into the middle of a harshly worded criticism of Protheroe's pomade. “I think—perhaps I ought to return home.”

She had never fainted in her life. But these men didn't know that, and their chorus of commiseration came swiftly. The tugging hands made gestures of sympathy; the cutting tones became polite. Somehow the effect was to force her to the outside of their knot.