Too Wicked to Marry (19 page)

"The one he fought the duel over?"

"Yes. Sabine's lover bribed your brother's lover when he couldn't get Sabine to help him. Of course, he also became besotted with your wife and deserted his assignment to run off with her. Very unprofessional."

Which is the pot calling the kettle black
, she thought. Sabine and her lover had paid with their lives for this desertion, though not before the pair had tried to cause Martin trouble he need never know about.

"I stayed on," she finished, "because no one notices a governess, even in the household of a man who travels to the centers of world intrigue. There were messages for me to deliver, intelligence to gather. I was really a very small cog in the espionage wheel. Mostly, I cared for your daughter as a proper governess should."

And watched your back
. Her principal assignment had been to direct the small group of operatives assigned to protect the unofficial ambassador whose skills were so very valuable to England.

Martin glanced toward the bed. "A proper governess indeed."

"Well, that was a different assignment. One adapts to circumstances." Harriet rose to her feet.

Nothing showed in Martin's face, his earlier agitation well hidden. "One does adapt indeed, my dear… mistress." He came to her side and held out his arm. "And I believe it is time for us to go."

"Perhaps I shall call you Caress," Martin said, running the back of his hand across Harriet's cheek. "Or Fancy," he said. "I think I'll introduce you as Fancy the flower vendor. What do you think of that?"

They sat close together on the narrow carriage seat. He had his arm around her shoulders, holding her against his long, hard body. She was very aware of him and told herself that was all to the good, that it helped her adapt to her part. Yet the awareness made her head reel and prodded her imagination into places she'd never let herself dream of before.

She and Martin had been occupying the drive to Strake House with light conversation, for which Harriet was grateful. She was too keyed up for any more serious discussion about past, present, or future at the moment. Martin seemed to sense her nervousness or perhaps he was reacting to his own discomfort, rather than trying to alleviate hers.

In reply to his latest flight of imagination, she said, "I think Fancy sounds rather cheap and common."

"Well—"

"Picking up that sort of woman wouldn't do your reputation any good, Martin. While I suppose I could manage a Cockney accent, think about what your friends would say about you if you consorted openly with a Covent Garden flower girl."

"You are annoyingly sensible much of the time, my dear."

"But the rest of the time I'm a blasted fool. A fool for you," she added, smiling dreamily as she dropped her head onto his shoulder.

"Fluttering your eyelashes when you did that was a bit much," he advised her on her performance. "What
shall
I call you?" he asked, seriously this time. "We've turned into the drive and will be at the house soon."

She wondered if he could hear her heart banging nervously inside her chest.

"I have it," he said before she could answer him. "I've always liked the name Cora. Let's say your name is Cora Bell. You're the daughter of servants on one of my family's estates. I interviewed you when you came to London looking for work, liked what I saw, and offered you your current position in my bed."

"How very medieval of you, Martin."

"Yes, but it's an easy explanation of why you've not been seen at the opera or on the stage or the other sorts of places men like Strake acquire their fancy women. It is a good cover story."

Indeed it was. Harriet lifted her head to look Martin in the eye. "Please don't take this as an insult, but I think you could be very good at this."

A flicker of disapproval crossed his eyes, but he said, "Thank you, Cora. That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Oh, no, it is you I have to thank, my lord," she answered, assuming the awed eagerness of a country girl lucky enough to have caught the attention of a wealthy, handsome nobleman.

Martin nodded and patted her lightly on the thigh. "I am eager to discover all the ways you intend to express that thanks. Ah," he said with a smug, deeply dimpled smile as the carriage rolled to a halt. "We're here."

"It's not the painted jezebels I mind," Mrs. Swift announced. She stood behind Harriet, fastening her into the freshly ironed ice-blue gown "Cora" was wearing down to dinner. "Girl has to do the best she can, however she can, in this world. Oh, no, it's them so-called ladies, married women showing off their toff lovers like they didn't know it was a sin. You should hear their maids twittering and gossiping belowstairs."

Harriet turned her gaze from the dressing room mirror where she'd been pinning up her hair, and smiled at the grizzled older woman. "You know I would very much like to hear any gossip you might find relevant."

Mrs. Swift gave a curt nod. "Have a report for you later tonight. Nice frock, this," she added, smoothing a silver-beaded panel at the back of the skirt.

"Aunt Phoebe's a godsend to send along proper attire," Harriet said. She glanced in the mirror at the gracefully plunging
dΘcolletage of the off-the-shoulder bodice. "Mother must have wired her. I wonder where she found clothes like this in such a hurry?"

"Pulled 'em out of her own closet," was Mrs. Swift's opinion. "Old girl still has spunk."

"I suppose one could call it that."

Harriet turned back to the mirror and picked up a necklace. She had to admit the finery made her feel better. Mrs. Swift was a fine seamstress, but her efforts paled in comparison to the examples of the dressmaker's art Harriet had encountered in the few hours she'd been in Strake House. Perhaps it was true among the demimonde that the more time you spent on your back, the more money you got to spend on what you wore on your back. Or perhaps they worked on some sort of barter system. She would have to ask Martin when they had a moment alone.

Lord Martin had been greeted effusively by his host. Sir Anthony was delighted Martin had changed his mind and had made much of him during the day, ensuring that Sir Anthony's association with so important a member of the nobility was made known to everyone gathered in the house. Martin put on an air of bonhomie and had a word for every man, a smile for every woman. There was a picnic luncheon in one of the huge estate's many gardens, a polo game, and billiards and cards in a gaming room the size of a palace ballroom. The men took part in these activities, while the women looked on admiringly until it was time to go upstairs and change for dinner. It was all dreadfully boring. Harriet had spent the day being the self-effacing ornament, taking in everything while blending into the crowd. So far, no one she'd encountered fit the particulars of the courier she was there to meet. The man she was to meet would be wearing a gold lily stickpin. She'd have to keep looking and putting up with an atmosphere she found distasteful and unnerving.

Martin does not belong here
, she thought.
He's a responsible man, a good father. He has nothing in common with this decadent lot
. It had been wrong of her to use his slight acquaintance with Sir Anthony Strake and drag him into this den of iniquity.
Where he seems to be having a perfectly lovely time
, she reminded herself. How long would this operation take? How many nights would she find herself in Lord Martin's bed, paying for his help? And why did her body tingle and tighten with excitement at the prospect of more nights with Martin? She had no choice but to make love to him; she wasn't supposed to like it.

"Hope we can leave tomorrow," Mrs. Swift said.

"Yes." The word was drawn out of Harriet slowly, with more reluctance than there should have been. "There are quite a few people here, more than I expected, somehow. I'm not sure if that's going to make the task easier or more difficult." She received a grunt in response. "They're an odd lot, I think," Harriet went on. "I get the impression that Sir Anthony didn't arrange this party only for the pleasure of entertaining his friends. There's a certain cold-eyed professionalism among some of the men at the card tables."

"He's probably pimping," Mrs. Swift contributed. "Not all the gentlemen brought a lady friend with 'em, I heard. And there's plenty of strapping young lads about, for the ladies of quality that came on their own."

Harriet shook her head in disgust. "What an unsavory fellow."

"Give a house too many bedrooms and you're asking for trouble," was Mrs. Swift's opinion of country house architecture.

And to think her brother Michael had been supposed to show up at this party, where apparently he fit in easily with the rest of the guest list. She was going to have to read that young man a strong lecture when she saw him. Still, she saw how a large number of people gathered to commit acts of moral and ethical ambiguity would make an excellent rendezvous point for clandestine meetings. Now all she had to do was make contact with the lily-wearing courier and discover if there were others at Strake House with an interest in acquiring the same information she was there to collect. If Michael had been compromised…

She didn't want to think that Michael might be hurt, or worse.

Fortunately, the door that separated her dressing room from the bedroom of the guest suite opened before she let her thoughts run off in wild, frightened speculation. Martin stood in the doorway, dressed in formal black and white. She saw his reflection in the mirror, then turned to look at him in the flesh. He stared at her. She was not sure whether his expression indicated disapproval or awe.

"Well?" she asked.

"You're wearing paint on your face."

Harriet put her hand up to her face, careful not to touch the dusting of rice powder Mrs. Swift had applied to her cheeks. "I must say it felt rather odd at first, but I don't notice it now. Do you like it?"

Martin did not like it. He did not like it at all. He almost told her so, and that, furthermore, nice women did not paint their faces like trollops or aged dames who pretended to still be in the first bloom of youth. But pointing this out would show a concern for her reputation and for her as a person that it was ridiculous for him to feel. He put on his best neutral diplomat's expression and said smoothly, "It does lend a certain allure and glamour, Cora, my dear."

"Cora needs all the allure and glamour she can get."

"She'll do." He had to work very hard to keep the words from coming out as an angry growl.

He had never seen her look more lovely, more alluring. That he now had to take her downstairs and show her off before the hungry eyes and dirty minds of the other men sent waves of possessive fury through him. He knew the men would see her in that magnificent dress and mink of nothing but what she would look like out of it. He felt that way himself—but that was all right for him! Why had he agreed to bring her here?

Because she wanted him to, he made himself recall. And he'd agreed out of a longing for revenge, restitution, the hope of humiliating and using her the way she'd humiliated and used him. It had made a certain amount of immature, twisted sense at the time.
It still makes sense
, his lower self argued.
She is lovely, she is yours. Show her off and bask in the others' envy when you're the one who takes her upstairs to bed. Let them imagine the things you're doing behind closed doors
. His imagination took flight at the possibilities.