The Scandalous Life of a True Lady (17 page)

He did it before she could say no, or send him to find stockings for his bare feet. She placed the fireplace poker down the center of the bed, dividing it.

He stayed on his side, spreading the blankets out. “Would you be happier if I fetched my sword and placed it between us?”

Simone ignored how he seemed to be settling in for the night, not just for their talk. “You brought a sword?”

“Of course. I am hoping for a fencing match or two, to keep in condition.”

Simone had seen nothing wrong with the devil’s condition. “Who else fences?”

“Metlock is too small and slow and not much of a challenge, although he tries when no one else is available. Daniel is too big and clumsy. But Gorham trains at Antonio’s. Sir Chauncey has won a duel or two.”

“He does not seem sober enough, or physically fit.”

“Looks can be deceiving, as we both know. Forget about Sir Chauncey. Tell me what talent you are going to perform for the company and the contest. Do you need music, an accompanyist? An instrument or a certain book?”

“I cannot decide. Miss Hanson plays the pianoforte far better than I do, and Miss Smythe, Lord Martindale’s friend, is said to be proficient at the harp.”

Harry groaned. “We have to listen to that?”

“She intends to wear white lace, to appear angelic.”

“That woman has no halo, I swear. She was Dunley’s before Martindale’s, and Chadwick’s before that. Lord knows when she has time to practice.”

Simone did not want to know any more. “I’m sure Mary Connors can portray Lady Macbeth far more convincingly than I. She was with a traveling troupe of actors before accepting Sir John Foley’s carte blanche. I do not write poetry like Miss Althorp, or whistle like Mademoiselle Granceaux. Yes, the self-styled Frenchwoman is going to whistle for her supper, or for the prize.”

“Heaven help us all.”

“My thoughts exactly. I’d never dare try singing, although I have not heard Miss Hope perform. Her reputation is far too intimidating. Miss Harbough is sending for her trained horse from the circus, and Sir Chauncey’s partner from the Royal Ballet will undoubtedly dance. The woman who wore the large ruby intends to cut silhouettes for the company, but from the salacious laughter, I doubt she is going to trace facial profiles. I have not seen a cat that needs brushing here, which appears to be my only talent.”

“The men won’t mind if they watch you brush your own hair, but I am certain you’ll think of something, and you’ll do admirably at it. You can delay your performance, saying you need to send to London for some trifle first, like Maddy’s horse. Not that a horse is a trifle, but you understand.”

He propped another pillow behind his head, a bit closer to Simone’s side. She did not protest, not wishing to argue over an inch or two, now that he was on the bed. Then he stretched, reaching his arm over his head, over her head. She frowned; he gave her an innocent look and yawned. “Sorry, it has been a long day and we still have to decide what to tell the snoops and scandal mongers. They’ll repeat it to the servants, who are liable to sell the information to the gossip columns. I would not be surprised if there are reporters in the village even now, waiting for morsels to send on to London. You and I will be the favorite topic, I’d wager.”

“Why? I’d think the presence of a former harem concubine would be more interesting.”

“Ah, but no one wants to be reminded of slavery. Besides, my very name is scandalous, remember? And I have never been known to have a woman in my keeping before.”

“What, never?”

“No, my life has been complicated enough without chancing my identity on a more lasting liaison.”

“Well, I’ve never had a man in my bed before.” Was she imagining things, or had he inched closer?

Harry stared up at the canopy over them. “Oh, I used to sleep with several of the Harrison boys, all in one big bed. I learned to defend my territory early.”

And to take up as much space as possible, Simone thought, pulling her own blankets closer. “What about girls?”

“Hell yes, three of them. The Harrison chits were proper little ladies. They shared a room down the corridor and squealed on us constantly. Two of them are married with families of their own.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I do know. I have known many women, Noma. That was part of the persona I wanted to create, part of who Harry Harmon had to be, as dissimilar from Major Harrison as possible. And why not? The earl’s by-blow was not going to be respectable, no matter what I did, so why not enjoy myself?”

“Did you?”

“At first. Now? Not as much. My father and half-brother wish me to join them at proper affairs, government functions, business meetings, respectable doings where I’d have to play the gentleman, but I am not certain. That seems too tame.”

“I see.”

“Do you, little governess? Have you ever wished for more excitement in your so-proper life?”

“This week will be quite enough of an adventure, thank you. I’ll have something to tell my children, if I dare.”

“Oh, you are going to have children to listen to your tales of dissipation?”

“Yes, three: two boys and a— That is, I have no idea. Harry, do you believe in fortune-telling?”

He turned on his side, to study her face. “Why?”

“Because I thought I’d seen you before, when I met Mr. Harris and Major Harrison, but of course I had not. And sometimes my mind creates detailed pictures of things I cannot have known. They are not dreams, but happen while I am wide awake.”

“You said your mother made extra money telling fortunes.”

“Yes, but Grandfather taught her how to tell foolish maids what they wanted to hear. I never believed she could actually do it.”

“Stranger things have happened. Lord knows that’s the truth.” He gently touched her cheek, so she looked at him. “Your mother was half-Gypsy. You are only a quarter Rom, but if the talent is in the blood…”

She shook her head. “No, that’s too silly to consider. I suppose I simply have a vivid imagination.”

“We can use that now, to make up a past for you, when we cannot avoid direct questions or give vague answers. Try to stick to the truth. That’s always the best.”

“Like you did?”

“I tried, sweetheart, I really did.”

“Then tell me truly, why was Mr. Harris so mean to me?”

He kissed her then, on the forehead. “Because that was what his role demanded.”

On her eyelids. “Because he could not trust himself to keep his hands off you.”

On her lips. “Because you were mine.”

Chapter Fourteen

Mine? What did he mean by that? She wasn’t the mistress kind. He wasn’t the marrying kind. What was left? Simone would have asked him, but she was too busy trying to decide whether she should kiss him back or slap him. Maybe both, but the kiss first.

Mid-decision, or mid-kiss, he rolled away, said good night, and went to sleep, on his side of the bed, atop the covers.

Mine? In his dreams, maybe, because he reached out for her later when she’d doused the candle. She was trying to get comfortable with a fireplace poker beside her, a strange man’s breath near her pillow, and unanswered questions buzzing like angry bees in her mind. He put his arm across her chest in his sleep, to stop her restless tossing. That worked, because she was afraid to move, to have his hand so close to her breast, even on top of the covers. She felt anchored, which was not a bad way to feel with the storm of emotions swirling around her.

She placed her hand over his, for the warmth, the strength. Mine.

No matter what happened after this week, she’d have her hundred pounds, the new clothes, and memories. She wouldn’t keep the necklace, but the shadow of his smile in her heart, that was hers forever.

Harry was gone when she awoke, along with any evidence of his makeshift bed. The fireplace poker was back where it belonged, too, and his robe was draped over the foot of the bed. Was that a studied effect for any servant who might enter, or had Harry taken it off in the night? That naked image was not conducive to falling back asleep, despite the early hour, the silence in the halls.

Simone pulled the robe up to touch its fabric, to rub it against her cheek, to sniff for his scent. She held it close. Hers for this week, anyway. She’d collect more memories of being Noma Royale, royalty among the princesses of pleasure, with Harry as her consort. She jumped out of bed to find him.

Ladies of the night, it seemed, were expected to sleep most of the morning, for no one came with fresh coals or hot wash water or a cup of chocolate. Simone was used to rising early, breakfasting with the servants, to have time to herself before dealing with the children in her care, but she was not sure of the protocol of a house party for philanderers. Besides, her new garments fastened in the back, over corsets that required a maid to pull on the strings. Nor could she manage a hair style elegant enough for this company, not without Sarah’s deft fingers and hot curling irons.

The young maid finally answered the bell pull, coming with a jug of hot water and rubbing her eyes. She was quiet for once, with no new hints about the competition or the plans for the day. She answered Simone’s questions in monosyllables, between yawns, until Simone gave up trying. She only hoped the girl wasn’t exhausted from a strenuous night, but it was not her place to lecture, not with the indentation of Harry’s head still on the pillows.

Only a handful of gentlemen were having breakfast when Simone finally followed the smell of coffee and bacon to the morning room. Harry was not one of them, so Simone would have withdrawn, but five men of various ages, social standings, and sobriety leaped to their feet. They all offered to fill her plate, her cup, her morning hours.

Harry? You don’t need that paltry fellow, one told her.

Another had a mistress and a wife. He had enough females, the cad.

A third would-be Lothario kept his lover in an unheated garret. He could not afford Simone, were she for sale.

The fourth, Lord Comden, whose
chérie amour
was
tres enciente
, cheerfully announced that since Alice was up and suffering morning sickness, he was at Miss Royale’s convenience.

Simone lost her appetite. She did accept a buttered sweet roll for herself and a few sugar cubes for the horses, thinking she would walk around to the stables to see if Harry was there. She wanted to have a few words with Daniel, too, if he was back from the village. She also wanted to get a better look at Harry’s stallion.

Before she left the morning room, she asked, “Does anyone know what activity is planned for today?”

“We were supposed to have the maze competition, but it’s been raining off and on. The women won’t want to dirty their hems.” The banking magnate raised his quizzing glass to inspect Simone’s skirts, or her ankles.

Simone hadn’t noticed the weather. She did notice the leers.

“Nearly everyone has a map of the place anyway,” Lord Martindale whined, since he’d paid double what everyone else had, and all for nothing. “Claire and Gorham will come up with something else.”

Simone took one look out the front door of Griffin Woods Manor and decided not to walk to the stables after all. She could barely see the woods the estate was named for, through the heavy downpour. She’d take a tour of the old building’s public rooms instead, in hopes of finding Harry and some hidden talent for her evening performance.

She wondered who had furnished Griffin Woods, the marquis, his wife, or Claire Hope, who seemed at home here. The Egyptian Room must have been Claire’s, with its ornate, dramatic colors that set off the raven-haired woman perfectly. A sewing room that overlooked the rear gardens was definitely the marchioness’s. The worn, comfortable furniture, the faded brocades, the many windows to let in the light were not Claire’s style at all. Nor was it her portrait hanging over the mantel. A maid polishing the door knobs informed Simone that the brown-haired woman in the painting was Lady Gorham herself, as she used to look. She had not been to this house in years, and no wonder why, the servant added in a low mutter.

Lady Gorham looked familiar to Simone, which was impossible. She knew few titled ladies from her years of employment, and this one had to be somewhat older now, different looking. She was neither a handsome woman nor a happy one, judging by the frown lines around her thin mouth. Or perhaps the artist had not done her justice. He’d done well capturing her interests, with a tambour frame by her side and a kitten playing with some yarn at her feet. Lady Gorham was undoubtably an excellent needlewoman. Simone could tell by the embroidered doilies on every surface, the flower-stitched seat covers, the framed tapestries throughout the room. She doubted Claire ever used the chamber, not with her lover’s wife’s portrait and fancywork still in it.

Simone continued on her tour until she found the billiards room where Sir John Foley and Captain Entwhistle were playing. And drinking, although the clocks had not chimed ten yet. Both offered to teach Simone to play. She knew enough about the game to understand that instruction involved the tutor’s arms around the pupil, which was totally improper. That was also most likely the reason the two men almost came to blows over who got to show Simone the proper grip.

“Oh, Harry said he’d teach me,” she told them before leaving the room. She realized she shouldn’t be wandering around by herself, not in a nest of hornets, but she did not want to go back to her room. A glance told her the rain continued, so that eliminated a walk, a ride, a tour of the gardens. She peeked back into the breakfast room to see if any women had come down, but they must all be taking trays in their rooms, if they were awake at all. A different set of men rose at the sight of her, but they expressed the same interest, the same innuendoes. A footman did suggest she try the ballroom for Mr. Harmon.

What in the world could Harry be doing in the ballroom in the morning? If he wanted to practice for the dancing, he should have waited for her.

She had to ask two more servants for directions to the vast chamber in a far wing, with closed doors and family portraits along the corridors. She could hear the noise before reaching the ballroom, and it was not music. Swords were clashing, men were grunting, others cheering.