Susan Johnson (35 page)

19.
Political management, the spoils system, and the use of influence were indispensable to the government. And all were employed to see that the Union proposal passed the Scottish Parliament. What’s astonishing are the small sums necessary to buy those votes needed for passage. With the exception of the prominent magnates who demanded and generally received generous sums, the rank-and-file members of Parliament who were paid for their votes realized modest returns. Seafield writes: “Culloden has been with me; and I think, if his pension be continued to him, we will have his assistance.” Seafield continues, “I think also that Bracco will be assisting; I have agreed with him for two hundred pounds a year.” Queensberry writes to the court that the Earl Marischal might be detached from the opposition for a pension of three hundred pounds—in this case he’s referring to Scots pounds—a very small amount. The court managers received more munificent rewards. Seafield was made a viscount with a thousand pound pension each year. Queensberry was given an English Dukedom and an annual pension of three thousand pounds for life. Argyll and his brother Archibald’s compensation was of course the most distinguished in terms of titles, wealth, and power. The brothers dominated Scottish politics after Queensberry died in 1711. At John’s death in 1743, Archibald succeeded to his title as third Duke of Argyll, and continued as the uncrowned ruler of Scotland until 1761.

CRYSTAL PALACE, LONDON
MAY
1851

The Marquis of Redvers caught sight of the Honorable Sarah Palmer and her aunt Lady Tallien before they saw him, and quickly slipped away down the nearest aisle. The crowds at the Great Exhibition offered him refuge, the daily attendance of forty thousand—a veritable crush beneath the glass barrel vaults of Paxton’s brilliant design. Taking no notice of the exhibits, he moved swiftly through the throng, concerned only with putting distance between himself and the two ladies. Sarah, newly out, had set her cap for him—always reason for evasion—while her aunt Bella, one of his many lovers, had begun making demands of him of late. Definitely time to move on, now
and
in the future.

Quickly glancing over his shoulder, he detected no telltale bobbing pink bonnet feathers in the mass of humanity behind him and gratified, he determined to make his unavailability crystal clear next time he met the Palmer ladies. But not today, not after two nights of women and carouse; he was damned tired. And if Sarah Palmer didn’t understand he wasn’t in the market for a wife, her aunt certainly should, as did anyone in the ton with half a brain.

Swiveling around a second too late, he crashed into a lady reading a brochure. She began to pitch backward, her astonished cry swallowed up in the din of the crowd. Reacting instinctively, he caught her arms, pulled her hard against him to keep them both from falling. Her eyes flared wide at the impress of his muscled chest against her breasts, his powerful thighs braced against hers and stunned, she looked up into dark eyes suddenly regarding her with interest.

She was exquisite—golden-haired, dazzling, graphically voluptuous—and even after two sleepless nights of debauch, the marquis’s senses instantly came alert. “Pardon me,” he murmured in a deep, low, fascinated tone.

“You’re pardoned.” A modicum of reserve underlay her words.

But he didn’t let her go. Her lavish breasts, shapely thighs, and wide-eyed beauty were too intriguing. “You’re French,” he said.

“Unhand me, please.” Her voice was cool now, her arms held out wide.

A gentleman despite all his profligate ways, he released her and stepped away. But he took note of the brochure in her hand, the machine on the cover a vast conglomeration of gas lights and mirrors. The exact one, he reflected, gazing over her shoulder, on display in the booth behind her—the apparatus set at the head and foot of an operating table. “I’ve been thinking of buying a dozen of those,” he remarked, pointing at her brochure, his smile gracious.

Her surprise showed.

“For my tenants’ hospital,” he mendaciously added.

“You must have a very large establishment.” She was wary. He’d never seen that look before in a woman, his reputation for pleasing women well-known.

“Just a small one at each estate,” he improvised.

The caution left her eyes, replaced by a spark of interest. “Do you employ doctors or just nurses? I’ve found that nurses often…”

Her conversation became quite animated at that point and guiding her to one side of the stream of traffic, he replied to her questions with answers that further encouraged her passionate interest in the very odd field of patient care. He was infinitely charming but then he’d had enormous practice.

Was she equally animated in bed? he wondered, debating how best to discover that fact for himself. And if the purchase of a dozen of those light contraptions might entice this dazzling woman into his bed, he decided it would be money well spent.

He invited her to dinner—just a small party of relatives, he spontaneously devised—and her hesitation was rather that of propriety than disinterest.

“You may know my aunt Lady Markham,” he offered. Her dress and manner were of his world, so they both understood the requirements of protocol.

“My father does,” she replied. “Her husband brokered the treaty between Greece and Turkey.”

“Your father?”

“Pasha Duras.”

“Ah … the freedom fighter.” Pasha Duras had served in the Greek government for a time; his name was well-known in Europe. “I could send a carriage for you at nine.”

“Will your aunt be there?”

If he had to drag her from her bed. “Yes,” he said.

“Well, then … I’d like that.” She finished with a smile that outshone the room lights. “My name is Venus.”

Perfect casting, he reflected, wondering if she’d inherited her namesake’s amorous persona as well. “I’m Jack Fitz-James.”

“The Marquis of Redvers,” she said with distaste. “I’m afraid I’m busy tonight. If you’ll excuse me.” And turning abruptly, she walked away.

But the marquis never withdrew from a challenge. Apparently she was planning on staying in London for another fortnight at least. Plenty of time, he mused, watching her disappear into the crowd, for a leisurely seduction.

“Found a new woman?” Ned Darlington quirked his brow in sardonic query as the marquis approached the Turkish exhibit. Pushing away from the glass display case filled with the weapons they’d come to see, he added, “Is she blonde or blonde?”

Jack’s gaze narrowed in mild scrutiny. “How the hell can you tell?”

Baron Darlington’s tone was indulgent. “How long have I known you?”

“Long enough apparently.” The marquis slowly smiled. “But this one’s utterly gorgeous.”

“Aren’t they all?”

Jack’s smile only broadened. “So cynical, Ned, when I’m enchanted.”

“No doubt that single-minded fascination accounts in no small measure for your success with the ladies.”

“I do like ’em. That’s no secret.” The marquis’s dark brows flickered with pithy import. “The lady calls herself Venus.”

“How appropriate considering your reputation for fucking.”

“I rather thought it auspicious.”

“So when are you joining her in bed?”

“Since she cut me cold, it might be a few days.”

The baron chuckled. “Losing your edge, my fine stud?”

“She’s French.”

“And obviously doesn’t know of your special talents for pleasing the ladies.”

Jack’s perfect white teeth flashed in a grin. “Apparently she does and that’s the rub.”

“So you’ll have to change her mind.”

“My thought exactly.”

“French ladies know what they want. Maybe you’re not her style. Have you thought of that?”

“We were having a very pleasant conversation until she discovered my name.”

“Along with your propensity for vice.” Ned shrugged. “If she’s prudish, don’t waste your time.”

“But I want to.”

“You want to assail the impregnable citadel? Since when?”

“Nothing’s impregnable,” the marquis softly murmured.

The baron cast his friend a speculative look. “That
comment almost calls for a wager … and if I didn’t know your unerring seductive skills, I’d hazard my money.”

“She just has to come to know me better,” Jack Fitz-James said with a disarming grin.

“I expect she will. Have you ever been refused?”

“Not until today.”

But regardless Ned’s wisdom in not betting on the outcome of the marquis’s seduction, he related the story of the lady’s refusal with droll merriment to some friends and many of them were less prudent or perhaps less discerning. Or maybe simply ripe for any scandalous wager. By the time the marquis entered Brookes that evening, gossip apropos Venus Duras had preceded him and the betting book was filled with an array of wildly extravagant wagers. Understanding the speed with which gossip swept through the ton, he received all the ribald and licentious comment with equanimity. But he took notice, as well, that there were those who had put money on the lady—on her ability to deter his advances.

He spent most of the evening gambling and won as usual, drank with his renowned and notable capacity, and adroitly deflected most of the conversational gambits having to do with his interest in Miss Duras. Until later that night when everyone was well into their cups and discretion vanished along with tact.

“She’s at the Duchess of Groveland’s ball tonight,” one of his gambling companions remarked with a waggish arch of his brow. “Why aren’t you there?”

“You already missed the dinner,” another noted with a grin, for the marquis’s disinterest in society dinners was well-known.

“Are we gambling or discussing my sex life?” Jack drawled, looking up from his cards, surveying his companions with an open gaze.

“Both,” the young Viscount Talmont cheerfully retorted, signaling the dealer for another card. “Did you know the untouchable Miss Duras has turned down two dukes and a passel of earls in the last fortnight?” Undeterred despite Jacks blank look, the viscount remarked, “Think you can do better?”

“I’m not offering her my title, Alastair. I hope that’s clear to everyone.”

“Don’t have to be clear to us, Redvers. Although I don’t suggest you mention the transience of your interest to the lady straight away.” Lord Halverstam cast a sportive look around the table.

“I’m also not in the market for advice,” the marquis murmured, “although I’ll take some of your money if that’s the best you can do.” He nodded at the man’s cards spread out on the green baize.

“Damn, Redvers,” Charles Givens muttered. “How the hell do you do it hand after hand?”

“Just lucky,” Jack pleasantly replied, scooping in the markers from the center of the table. “Or maybe you’re paying too much attention to my love life and not enough to your cards.”

And for the next several hands with varying degrees of inebriation, everyone concentrated on their cards. Without any better results. The marquis won another twenty thousand by the end of the hour and after glancing at the clock on the wall, he waved a footman over and ordered a bottle of brandy. Gathering his winnings, he handed them to another servant, bid his adieus and rose from the table without explanation. Taking the brandy from the footman just short of the door, he raced down the stairs.

He’d promised the Duchess of Groveland he’d come and dance with her before midnight and he had only ten minutes to make good on his promise.

The marquetry case clock in the cavernous entrance hall of Groveland House was striking midnight when the Marquis of Redvers strolled through the opened doors. He handed his brandy bottle to Peggy’s majordomo, whom he greeted with genial familiarity. “Don’t bother announcing me, Jer-rold,” he added. “I’ll cut in on the Duchess.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” the august butler replied, his mouth twitching into a restrained smile. “She didn’t think you’d arrive on time.”