Beguiling the Beauty Page 15

  But Fitz was already in the study, clad in only his shirtsleeves, a Cresswell & Graves bottle of champagne cider and a glass by his elbow.

  “Can’t sleep again, Venetia?”

  She took the chair opposite his. “Slept too much after tea. What are you—”

  She forgot what she was about to say as she saw the small smear on the front of his shirt. “Is that blood?”

  “Hastings’s.”

  “Why do you have Hastings’s blood on you?”

  “Long story. Anyway, I had a tête-à-tête with Andrew Martin.”

  “With your fist?”

  “I’d planned to, but it would have been like punching the Easter Hare.”

  Mr. Martin did have one of those eternally innocent faces. “So what did you do?”

  “I pointed out to him the risks to Helena. That if we can find out, so can others. That if he loves her, he must stay away from her.”

  “You think he would?”

  “He seemed contrite enough. In any case, I told him that if he gave me the least cause for suspicion, I’d remove his—pardon my language—stones.” Fitz fetched another glass and poured champagne cider in both. “Now you, Venetia.”

  “Me?”

  “Your stomach can’t be upset from the turbot. I watched you: You cut the filet and moved the pieces about but you didn’t eat any of it.”

  “Maybe it was something else.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  Why did she have the feeling that Fitz was not speaking of another item at dinner? “I think I’ll take myself back to bed.”

  As she reached the door, Fitz asked, “He is not married, is he?”

  Without turning around, she said, “If you speak of the Duke of Lexington, I am fairly certain he is not.”

  “I don’t mean him.”

  A stroke of pure genius—if she did say so herself. Now she could answer in all honesty, “Then I don’t know who you mean.”

  Christian tossed aside yet another crumpled piece of paper.

  He relished writing to his beloved—a bit of his day, a thought here and there, almost as if he were speaking to her. But tonight those few lines had been impossible to write.

  What could he say? When I saw Mrs. Easterbrook, I fell instantly under her spell again. You will be pleased to know that once I remembered myself, all was well. But until then, you were the furthest thing on my mind?

  He could exclude any mention of Mrs. Easterbrook. After all, he’d visited the Savoy and discussed her with the dowager duchess—more than enough to fill a letter of moderate length. But that would be lying by omission.

  It was unthinkable to lie to his beloved.

  My Darling,

  A test came today in the form of Mrs. Elsewhere, and I cannot say I passed: I am not as immune to her charms as I had declared. I have not done anything for which I must ask for your forgiveness, but I find it difficult to justify the direction of my thoughts.

  I need you. If my weakness is exacerbated by the distance that separates us, it may be logically deduced then that your presence will fortify my every strength.

  Come soon. You can easily find me.

  Your devoted servant,

  C.

  CHAPTER 13

  Millie sliced open the first letter in her pile of morning post.

  “My dear, I have it on good authority,” she said, still scanning the page, “that you broke poor Letty Smythe’s heart.”

  Venetia and Helena had asked for breakfast to be sent up to their rooms. Millie and Fitz had the breakfast parlor to themselves, allowing for a more private conversation.

  “That is a vicious and groundless rumor,” answered Fitz, smiling. “I have, however, stopped sleeping with her.”

  “Exactly what I meant.”

  “Rather unfair of the rumormongers, don’t you think, to always cast me in the role of the unfeeling villain? It was a pleasant interlude that ran its course.”

  “Does Mrs. Smythe think so?”

  “Mrs. Smythe will come to agree with me.”

  Millie shook her head, as if they were but discussing a misbehaving puppy. “I am not one to gloat, but I told you that you shouldn’t have taken up with her.”

  “And I should have followed your advice.”

  “Thank you. May I suggest Lady Quincy? She is pretty, well-spoken, and, most important, sensible: She will not make a fool of herself when your affair ends.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is there something you find objectionable about Lady Quincy?”

  “Nothing. But my affairs run what, three, four months? It would be disrespectful of me to come to you while I am also enjoying another lady’s favor.”

  The pact. It was the first time in years the subject had come up. She spread a heaping spoonful of marmalade over her toast and hoped she looked as nonchalant as he did. “Oh piffle. We are an old married couple. Go ahead and have your fun. I can wait.”

  “I disagree,” he said evenly. “Duty first.”

  Their gaze held. A sharp bolt of heat struck her. She looked away to the pile of letters still to be opened and picked up the one on top. “Oh well, as you wish, then,” she said, slicing the envelope open with a flick of her letter knife.

  At first she only pretended to read. But the words somehow leaped off the page and forced her to pay attention.

  She read the letter once, twice, three times before letting it drop.

  “I am afraid I have some bad news, Fitz.”

  Venetia could not remember the last time she’d vomited.

  Yet just now, the smell of a slice of buttered toast, an item that had featured daily on her plate since she first sprouted teeth, had thrown her insides into such a state of convulsion that she’d hastily retreated to the nearest water closet and there spent a wretched few minutes surrendering the contents of her stomach.

  She scrubbed her mouth and washed her face. When she came out of the water closet, she nearly collided with Millie. Millie, the mildest person she knew, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We’ll talk in your room,” Millie said, opening Venetia’s door.

  They were greeted by the sight of Helena frantically searching Venetia’s armoire.

  “I gave your jacket to your maid,” Venetia said. “She’s probably cleaning it.”

  “I’d better go take a look.” Helena headed toward the door. “She might not know the proper way of doing it.”

  “Forget your jacket for now, Helena,” said Millie, closing the door. “Venetia, you might like to sit down.”

  Venetia did—something in Millie’s voice unnerved her. “What is it?”

  “Lady Avery was at the Duke of Lexington’s lecture.”

  Venetia gripped the arms of her chair, light-headed with horror.

  Helena braced a hand on Venetia’s bedpost, as if she had trouble supporting her weight. “The one at Harvard?”

  Which else?

  “She was in Boston the same time we were, attending the wedding of her son’s American brother-in-law,” said Millie. “She returned day before yesterday. Last night she dined at her niece’s place and told everyone at table what the duke had said.”

  And the ladies at dinner would have gone on to the night’s dances and balls, the gentlemen to their clubs, and word would have spread like the bubonic plague.

  The nausea came again. Except this time there was nothing left in Venetia. She clenched her teeth until it passed. “Do they all think he was speaking of me?”

  “Many do.”

  “Do they believe him?”

  “Not everyone is convinced,” Millie said carefully.

  That meant some were.

  “He is the most eligible bachelor in the realm,” continued Millie. “You are our most beautiful woman. For him to accuse you so—even the possibility of it is beyond sensational.”

  Venetia felt as if she were chest deep in quicksand.

  Helena lo
oked as miserable as Venetia had ever seen her. “This is all—”

  She stopped short of saying this was all her fault. To do so would have been to admit that her sisters had cause to take her out of the country.

  Venetia rose. “He was quite indiscreet in Boston—perhaps he thought he could afford to be, since he was far from home. But I’m sure he has since realized his error. A man such as he has no interest in brewing tempests in teapots.”

  “That’s quite a complimentary view you take of him,” said Fitz, who had come into the room to stand beside his wife.

  “My opinion of him should have no bearing on my assessment of the situation. I believe he will be almost as displeased about the rumors as we are and will do nothing to add to them.”

  “His silence will be just as problematic,” Helena pointed out. “He has to denounce the rumors as untrue.”

  “That will require him to lie. He will not do that for me.”

  “Then what?”

  “This will be a test to see whether my friends are truly my friends. If they are, they will close ranks around me and not allow anyone to question either my conduct or my moral fiber.”

  “I will make sure my friends fall in line,” said Fitz quietly.

  “It is rather last-minute, but we should have no problem giving a dinner for forty tomorrow night—a rallying of the troops,” added Millie.

  “Good,” said Venetia. “The Tremaines are hosting a ball tomorrow night. After your dinner, we will all of us attend.”

  “And between now and then, we should make sure to be seen as much as possible,” said Helena. “And don’t forget to visit your modiste. You will want to devastate everyone in your path—in the most enjoyable manner, that is.”

  “Yes, I believe I’ve just the thing,” Venetia murmured.

  She’d discovered during her marriage to Tony that looking perfect was often enough to convince people that she was happy. Her appearance tomorrow would leave no doubt that she was in command of every aspect of her life.

  A silence fell. Millie and Fitz were certainly each thinking of the specifics of what they needed to accomplish. As for Helena, Venetia had no idea what went through Helena’s mind these days. She hoped Helena wasn’t again blaming herself. If anything, she was grateful for Helena’s indiscretions—it had brought her the most wonderful week of her life.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said.

  Hell-bent on escape, she had not quite realized it at the time. But the worst had already happened: She had lost the man she loved.

  Everything else was but ashes from the fire.

  Because Christian did not frequent the London Season, Society had an exaggerated idea of the amount of time he spent gallivanting abroad. But he was rarely away more than four months out of the year. The rest of the time he looked after his inheritance.

  The de Montforts had been a lucky clan. Other families just as prominent now held land and properties worth next to nothing. But the de Montforts happened upon quarries, mines, waterways, and tracts coveted by generations of builders. Directly and indirectly, through older holdings and newer ventures, Christian was responsible for the livelihoods of six hundred men and women. He educated their children and supported longtime retainers in their retirement.

  His income was tremendous, but his expenses were also breathtaking. For that reason, he’d always approached meetings with his agents and solicitors with the utmost alertness. Today his attention lasted long enough to approve of a plan to petition the Shah of Persia for a concession to search for petroleum on the latter’s land.

  After that, he barely heard what the roomful of men had to say.

  The dream had come again—Mrs. Easterbrook dressing leisurely after their lovemaking, while he gazed upon her with infinite pleasure. This time, however, when she’d turned around, she’d spoken in German—in the baroness’s voice.

  The worst part was that he’d awakened happy.

  A knock came at the door. McAdams, the solicitor, cast a displeased eye toward it.

  “Sir,” said Richards, his butler, “the dowager duchess would like to see you.”

  Her Grace had never before asked to see him in the middle of a meeting with his men of business. Was something the matter with Mr. Kingston? He’d been in perfect health when they’d left him yesterday morning.

  She was waiting for him in the drawing room and closed the door the moment he was inside. “The news is all over London, Christian. Lady Avery reports that at the lecture you gave at Harvard University, you accused Mrs. Easterbrook of killing her husbands with her greed.”

  Time slowed with the utterance of the word Harvard. The dowager duchess’s lips moved at the speed of a glacier. Each additional syllable took an eon to arrive.

  But he didn’t need to hear the rest. He already knew. His mistake had come to deliver its costly consequences.

  “Lady Avery was at the lecture herself?” He heard his own voice, detached, remote.

  Her face crumpled. “Oh, Christian, please tell me it isn’t true.”

  “I never named Mrs. Easterbrook.”

  “But you were speaking of her?”

  He could not admit it, not even to the woman who had been both a mother and a sister to him. “It does not matter of whom I spoke. Rest assured I will do what I must to rectify the situation.”

  “What has happened to you, Christian?” Her face sagged with worry. “First a public affair and then this. This is not like you at all.”

  “I will take care of everything,” he promised her. “I will make everything all right again.”

  At least on the outside.

  Amazing how much one could do on an empty stomach when much needed to be done.

  Venetia made sure she was seen everywhere: at the park, at the theater, at the latest exhibit of the British Museum. During Millie’s dinner she smiled and chatted as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Following dinner, she donned her armor and set out for the balls.

  The armor was a ball gown of crimson velvet, cut very low and very tight. She’d had it made two Seasons ago on a whim, but she’d come to her senses and never worn it—her function at balls was that of a chaperone and a facilitator, not someone who called attention to herself. But tonight she meant for all eyes to be upon her, as she danced and laughed as if she’d never heard of America, let alone the Duke of Lexington.

  By the time she arrived at the Tremaine ball, her third and last, it was well past midnight. Lady Tremaine met her at the head of the stairs and gave her an approving look.

  “Brings back fond memories of when I last made a dramatic entrance—also in red velvet, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You are not mistaken at all,” said Lord Tremaine, who was never far from his wife’s side. “And the memories are indeed very fond.”

  Venetia shook her head. “You will please stop flirting in public with your wife, sir. The mind quite boggles.”

  Lady Tremaine laughed. “Well, in you go, Mrs. Easterbrook. They say Byron would claw his way out of his grave to rewrite ‘She Walks in Beauty’ if he ever saw you coming down a staircase.”

  Venetia possessed one of the best descents. She didn’t often employ it—again, not her place as a mere chaperone—but when she did, her head tilted just so, shoulders back, arms limber, the slightest of a smile playing about her lips, both men and women had been known to drop their drinks at the sight.

  Tonight the entire ballroom held its breath at her entrance, then came a scramble for places on her dance card.

  But this was never about the gentlemen: A beautiful woman was always assured of some masculine support. Society, however, was run largely by women and for women. And women were far less forgiving of other women.

  The younger girls were excited—and some, quite unnerved—by the possibility of great conflict. Some matrons regarded her with a mixture of coolness and what felt to be—she hoped she was wrong—bloodlust. They were too prudent to immediately pounce upon her and declare her a husband-k
iller, but they, or at least a few of them, would like to, for the sport and spectacle of it, if nothing else.

  And it was they, in the end, who must declare her once again fit for Society.

  At present, her allies circulated the ballroom and, subtly but firmly, let it be known that they would not stand by for her to be ostracized—that they were prepared to sever ties with the one who dared to cast the first stone.

  She was grateful. But she was also a realist. If this dragged on, her reputation would diminish daily. In the end, it would not be necessary for anyone to step up and denounce her. The collective caution—and desire to not be associated with someone dubious—would be quite enough to relegate her to the fringes of Society, still received in a few households and unwelcome everywhere else.

  Breathless and a little dizzy from dancing Strauss’s “Wine, Women, and Song” with Lord Tremaine, she almost did not hear the announcement of the arrival of the Duke of Lexington.

  The ballroom had thrummed with exiting dancers, laughing from their exertion. Now it fell as quiet as the Reading Room at the British Museum, with all eyes upon the duke, descending the grand staircase behind his stepmother—gentlemen of a party always entered a ball behind the ladies—and a man Venetia assumed to be Mr. Kingston by his side.

  Lord Tremaine had been about to deliver Venetia to Fitz and Millie, but now he changed course and guided her toward his wife. The two of them flanked her—so there could be no mistake of their backing.

  Christian, with his characteristic directness, headed straight for the Tremaines—and Venetia.

  The air drew taut. This was not to be an overtly hostile encounter—the presence of the dowager duchess was a guarantee of civility on her stepson’s part. Yet Venetia felt as if she were a novice gladiator about to be thrown into the coliseum for the first time against a seasoned combatant, with the entire audience braying for her blood.

  Lord Tremaine exchanged a pleasant word with his guests, extended his welcome, and then, turning a little, as if just discovering Venetia beside him, said to the dowager duchess, “Your Grace, may I present a good friend, Mrs. Easterbrook?”