Temporary Mistress (5 page)

THE SUN WAS SHINING brightly through the lace-and-muslin curtains when Isabella woke with a start.

Her grandfather's funeral!

She sat bolt upright, threw off the blanket, and leaped to her feet. Running to the bellpull, she yanked on it and then nervously paced until a servant responded.

"I must see Mrs. Crocker at once. Which room is hers?"

Agitation rang through her voice, and the maid, wide-eyed and nervous, pointed through the open portal across the sitting room toward a closed door. "She be havin' breakfast, miss."

"Thank you," Isabella briskly replied, already moving in the indicated direction. Reaching the door, she knocked firmly and without waiting for an answer, turned the latch and walked into the room.

She came to an abrupt standstill and flushed to a bright shade of pink. A shockingly handsome man, barefoot and shirtless, was seated across from Mrs. Crocker, having breakfast.

Good God, Dermott thought, his gaze on the woman he'd glimpsed the previous night. She was even more beautiful at close range. And barely clothed, he pleasantly noted. His body instantly responded to the opulent vision, the lady's sumptuous breasts, narrow waist, the soft curve of her hips, and slender legs conspicuous beneath the fragile fabric of her robe.

"Come in, my dear," Molly invited Isabella. "Join us for breakfast."

"No thank you—that is—I need"—she tried not to look at his half-naked body—"I mean, I'd like to talk to you immediately."

"Let me excuse myself." Dermott began to rise.

"No need." Molly waved him back down. "I'll come to your room," she said, smiling at Isabella, who had taken startling note of the muscles rippling across the man's shoulders when he moved. Coming to her feet, Mrs. Crocker spoke to her companion affectionately. "You eat. I know how you need food in the morning." With a smile for the earl, she ushered Isabella out of the room, followed her into her bedchamber, and shut the door. "Now, tell me what I can do for you."

The few moments it had taken to reach her room had given Isabella time to compose herself—Mrs. Crocker's breakfast companion had nothing to do with her. "I came to tell you I
must
see to the arrangements for my grandfather's funeral," she explained. "I don't know how I could have forgotten last night!"

"It's completely understandable with your life in jeopardy. Surely you're not thinking of attending his funeral?" Mrs. Crocker quickly interjected. "You'd be whisked away and married off, with certainty."

"I know." Isabella's nervousness was apparent. "But I must see that the arrangements are
en train
. Or at least contact Mr. Lampert so he can handle things in my stead. Although," she said in a near whisper, "how can I not be there to put my grandfather to rest?"

"Once the danger is past, you can pay your respects. If anyone would allow you that latitude, I'm sure your grandfather would. Let me send a servant to Mr. Lampert with a note from you."

"Anonymously," Isabella's said, her trepidation plain.

"Of course."

"I'm sorry." She looked embarrassed. "How rude of me after all you've done."

"No need to apologize, my dear. I well understand society's strictures. Mr. Lampert will be contacted with the utmost discretion. Now, write your instructions to him while I see that some breakfast is brought up for you. Or, if you wish, you're more than welcome to join Bathurst and me."

Isabella colored. "I couldn't."

"Then one of the maids will bring your breakfast to you here," Molly affably replied. "And whenever your letter is ready, I'll see that it's sent. With luck," she cordially added, "you'll be delivered from your relatives' malice in short order."

"I pray you're right, Mrs. Crocker." Heartfelt emotion accompanied the simple phrase.

"Where did she come from?" Dermott's query greeted Molly's return.

"I'm not sure. Pursued and terrified, she stumbled on us by accident last night. Apparently, she was being forced into a repugnant marriage." Molly took her seat at the table.

"That takes a certain boldness. To run into the night."

"Or rank terror. She's quite without connections, and those she has are after her fortune." Molly poured herself a fresh cup of tea.

"A fortune and no partisans? She might as well put a target on her back."

"So she quickly came to understand last night. Her grandfather wasn't an hour dead when they hurried her before a minister."

"Ah, the lure of easy money."

"You're one of few who can so casually disallow the phenomenon."

"I paid for my fortune with my blood, Molly. There's nothing casual about my wealth."

"Or mine."

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. "We've both overcome obstacles, have we not?" His eyes went blank for a moment, and he reached for the porter he was drinking with his breakfast.

"We can't change our fathers' inhumanity or the buffeting of fate."

"Only try to forget it," he murmured, a harsh bitterness in his tone. Lifting the mug to his mouth, he drained it, set it down on the table, and smiling at Molly with a practiced nonchalance, said, "Surely we have better things to discuss on a bright sunny morning like this, with the smell of spring in the air."

"I believe we were talking of my newest houseguest."

"Much better. She's very delicious."

"Yes, is she not." Molly picked up a strawberry tart.

"And?" One dark brow rose in query.

"Her status is still in question."

"That sounds interesting. Might she be available?"

"She might."

"You're being very coy, Molly. Unlike you."

"While your habitual urges haven't deserted you."

"Let's hope they haven't. I'm only twenty-nine. Now, tell me the percentages on 'might.' "

Molly explained the possible bargain made the previous night between herself and Isabella while she nibbled on the pastry. "Do you know of the Leslies—either her grandfather or the relatives who intend her harm?" she asked. "The name means nothing to me."

Dermott shook his head. "They don't run in my circles, but then," he noted with a grin, "my friends are decidedly scandalous. Not an arriviste banker in the lot."

Only the Prince of Wales and his set, Molly silently noted. Dermott moved in the highest society. "Regardless Isabella's background, her innocence is real. So I'm not sure about percentages or the extent of my profit motive. Perhaps I may choose to be benevolent."

"Not necessarily a kindness to her," he pointed out. "In terms of her future, she may prefer less innocence and ultimately more freedom. And don't infer selfish motives on my part. Rather, I'm reminding you how the world views an untouched, undefended heiress. She's fair game for every rogue, and you know it."

"So what am I to do?"

"Wait for her decision. It's not for you to decide."

"And should she ultimately agree to my offer? What do I do then?"

His smile was warm and boyish and full of charm. "You let me outbid the other contenders."

"I don't want her hurt."

"Have I ever harmed a woman in any way?"

"No," she grudgingly replied, knowing full well Dermott's speciality was more in the nature of offering them the ultimate pleasures.

"And are the women I know ever unhappy?"

"You're much too vain." But her smile was affectionate. She'd known Dermott before he left for India and she'd helped him forget his painful memories on his return. "I'll think about it."

"Let me bid last. That's all I ask."

"It may not come to that."

"
If
it does, I'd be happy to help make you richer."

"The nabob speaking."

He shrugged, not about to argue. "I saw her last night, you know, when she first came in. She disturbed my sleep, and that doesn't happen as a rule. I hope she decides to stay for a time."

"Since you're so interested, I might ask a favor of you."

"Ask away." Feeling decidedly content with the possibilities in his favor, he set to eating again, his appetite commensurate with his youth and level of physical activity.

"This note that's to be delivered to her lawyer. I might use your man rather than mine. To put anyone who might be watching off the scent."

"Be my guest." He reached for another slice of ham. "No one will dare to interfere with you." "True." He didn't argue his reputation for violence. Nor his record for surviving more duels than anyone in England. Glancing up from his plate, he cast her a quizzical look. "She really intrigues me. Tell me why?" "She's very beautiful."

He resumed cutting his ham. "It's not just that." "Maybe the scent of innocence provokes you." His gaze came up again and his dark eyes were strangely cool. "I don't like innocence."

"Then she's the exception, unless you want to be second."

He shook his head very gently. "Not a chance." His mouth twitched into a grin. "It almost makes one believe in—"

"Bewitchment?"

He laughed. "I was going to say avarice:" "Greed in conjunction with a woman isn't unusual." "It is for me." He abruptly pushed his chair away from the table as though the thought were objectionable. "I'll be downstairs until Tattersall's opens," he crisply said, standing. "My man will be available for your errands." And turning, he walked away.

Molly watched him leave the room and wondered what had come over the most profligate rake in London. Too little sleep, she pragmatically thought, or simply the male fear of emotion. Bathurst was particularly insensitive to finer feeling since his return from India. He lived on the edge, betting on anything, needing to win, always outbidding the competition for objects he desired. No need to look for philanthropic sentiments concerning his interest in Miss Leslie. Shaking the crumbs from her skirt, she rose from her chair and went to see if Isabella was finished with her letter.

"I'm ready," Isabella said, sealing the letter with a bit of wax as Mrs. Crocker entered the room. "There wasn't much to say. Lampert has had instructions for Grandpapa's funeral for years now. Grandpapa was like that. He preferred making his own arrangements. I simply told Lampert I'd be out of town for some time and should he need to get in touch with me, he could send a note to the bookseller on Albemarle Street. Mr. Martin won't mind. He's known me all my life." Standing, she turned and moved toward Mrs. Crocker with the letter.

"Very sensible, my dear. We'll see that your Mr. Martin is contacted should any messages be sent there. Let me take this to a servant, and if you wish, when I return we can find something to amuse you, to divert you from the awfulness of events. Certainly, you're in need of some gowns."

"Perhaps mine could just be cleaned."

"Of course. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable while I see that your letter is on its way. Did you notice the novels on the shelf near the window?"

She hadn't, and after Mrs. Crocker left the room, Isabella examined the selection of books. Astonished, she surveyed not only the latest novels but an array of works in Latin, Greek, and French. One would hardly expect to see such erudition in a brothel, however elegant. Who
read these? she wondered. Taking out a copy of Christine de Pisan's
The Book of the City of the Ladies
, she thought it strange reading for the ladies—or men, for that matter—who inhabited this house. Taking note of Madame de Sévigné's letters next—one of her favorites—she slipped out the small morocco-bound volume. Her gaze swept the shelves in fascination—one after another of books she loved was available in this cozy, sun-filled room. The sensation of fantasy returned to her, as though she'd stepped into a magical refuge filled with comforts, safety, and simple pleasures.

But the door opening to admit her hostess reminded her that in addition to the pleasures that seemed fantastical were other improprieties she need consider.

"Ah, you've found some you like." Mrs. Crocker carried in a breakfast tray.

"They're all quite wonderful. Are they yours?"

"Reading is my greatest pleasure. Come, sit and have something to eat." Placing the tray on a bureau top, Molly lifted off several dishes, a teapot, and cups and arranged them on a small table. "Guillaume sent up some warm pastries with an omelet. I hope you like marzipan tarts and strawberries."

"Have you somehow tapped into my mind, Mrs. Crocker?" Isabella queried with a smile. "Not only are the books superb, along with the room, but marzipan has been my favorite since childhood."

"Perfect. Along with chantilly cream, I hope." Sitting, she waved Isabella over and began pouring tea for them. "Your note is on its way. The lawyer should have it in his hands within the half hour."

"Thank you again." Isabella set the two books she held on the table and pulled up a green faux bamboo chair of the latest fashion. "Since I'm not able to attend the funeral, I hope I may soon visit Grandpapa's burial site. He wished to be placed in a vault he had constructed at our country home."

"I'm sure your troubles with your relatives will be brief."

"Particularly if I go through with our arrangement." Her gaze slid away from Mrs. Crocker.

"Would you like me to try to find you a barrister willing to offer a stronger challenge to your uncle et al? I know how difficult a choice this is."

Sighing, Isabella traced the pattern on the silver teaspoon with the pad of her finger. "I'm afraid any warning would only postpone my relatives' dastardly plans. And unless, as you pointed out last night, they are publicly shamed out of the idea of marrying me into their family, they will continue to harass me."

"You might move to the country."

"I think I'd be even more afraid. The solitude—" She made a small moue. "I've probably read too many popular novels, but I can imagine them locking me into the attic and leaving me there once they have my money. Who would even know?"

Who, indeed, Molly thought, when the young lady was without friends. "I'll be perfectly frank. When I spoke with you last night, I planned, as you know, to make a profit on our bargain. But I find myself increasingly uncomfortable doing so."

"It was a bargain I well understood, Mrs. Crocker. I'm not a child, nor do I delude myself on the need for this extremity."