My Fair Mistress (10 page)

“Are you enjoying the performance?” Maris asked as the house lights brightened for the interval.

Julianna roused herself from her musings and focused on her sister’s expectant face. “Of course. Why?”

“You seem distracted tonight.”

Julianna fought down a blush, very much aware of how distracted she’d been. Despite her earlier vow to think no more of him, memories of her afternoon with Rafe kept assailing her thoughts and teasing her body. Wrapped inside a tantalizing, daydreamy haze that made her blood secretly hum, she’d barely heard a word of the entire first act.

“Just a bit tired,” she defended. “Perhaps a turn about the theater will refresh me, so I’ll be sharp for the next act.”

“Oh, let’s.” Maris sprang up from her chair. “Maybe they’re selling punch or lemonade. I could do with a cool drink; it’s so warm in here.”

With Cousin Henrietta’s agreement, the three of them strolled out into the corridor. Cologne and burning tallow hung heavily in the air as they made their way toward the staircase that would take them down to the refreshment tables. Before they reached it, a tall, sandy-haired gentleman rounded the corner.

Stopping, he bowed, his blue eyes alive with genial welcome. “Ladies, how do you do? What a delightful surprise to find you here tonight! I’d thought myself one of the few in attendance this evening, Society being rather thin and all at the moment.”

She recognized him. Everyone in Society knew Burton St. George, Viscount Middleton, even though Julianna’s association with him had never moved beyond that of simple acquaintances.

“Yes,” she said, “most families have yet to leave their country homes for Town, since the Season is still a few weeks away.”

He nodded his agreement. “Just so. Will you do me the pleasure of making me known to your friends, Lady Hawthorne?”

“But of course.”

After she made the introductions, he bowed grandly over Henrietta’s hand, then transferred his attentions to Maris, whose cheeks flushed pink as a summer peony.

“Lady Maris, may I speak for all gentlemen by saying how glad we shall be to have such beauty in our midst. Perhaps I should lend my sword to you now so you will have some means of defending yourself from the inevitable male onslaught.”

Maris’s eyes widened at his compliment, her cheeks growing even rosier. “I’m not yet out, my lord. I have not been presented to the queen.”

“An occasion for which to be fervently hoped. Pray tell the queen to hurry and make your acquaintance.”

“Enough of that now, my lord,” Julianna scolded lightly, not sure if she approved of his flirtation. “If you continue, my sister’s head shall be as swollen as the hot air balloons we viewed during last year’s exhibition.”

“Middleton,” Henrietta interrupted. “Are you by any chance related to the late David St. George?”

Politely, the viscount turned toward the older woman. “Why yes, ma’am, I am. David St. George was my father, God rest his soul.”

“Oh, well, fancy that. I knew your father when I was but a green girl no older than our Maris. So handsome he was, too, your father. Now, he was a man who knew how to cut a swath with the ladies.”

“As you say, Mrs. Mayhew, my father was a fine man who found favor among both sexes. Now, where were you ladies headed when I happened upon you? Back to your box?”

“Actually, we were in search of refreshments.”

“Pray permit me to fetch them for you. You never know what sort of rabble you may find on the lower levels. By no means the sort gently bred females should be near.”

Julianna frowned, thinking once again of Rafe. Did he keep a box at the theater? she wondered. Surely she would have noticed him before if he did. Then again, despite his wealth and sophistication, she knew he didn’t travel in the same social circles as she and her family. Many, in fact, would lump him in with the “rabble” to which Middleton referred, based solely on his lack of a title and the circumstances of his birth. Disturbed by the notion, she said nothing.

Cousin Henrietta meanwhile accepted the viscount’s offer to procure their drinks. With a bow and a smile, he turned away.

“My, what a handsome rogue!” Henrietta observed once he’d gone. “Though he must take after his mother, since he doesn’t resemble his father at all.” The older woman turned a teasing gaze on Maris. “And what did you think of his lordship, young miss? He showed a marked preference for you, I thought.”

Maris fanned herself as the three of them started back to their box. “He was very elegant and dashing. Quite gentlemanly.”

And so Middleton was, Julianna thought. The epitome of the perfect aristocrat. Strange, then, that she always experienced the oddest sense of misgiving whenever he was around.

I am just being foolish,
she told herself. The man is gracious and amiable, exactly as a gentleman ought to be. Still, whatever his nature, one thing was clear: he was far too mature for Maris.

Deciding the conversation needed an immediate change of subject, Julianna launched into the one topic sure to divert her companions—fashion.

Moments later, Viscount Middleton had been supplanted by talk of ribbons, sleeve lengths, and the best colors to dye hat feathers.

Burton St. George jogged down the theater staircase, roughly elbowing his way past a pair of middle-class men when they didn’t immediately give way at his passing. He ignored their exclamations, dismissing them instantly.

Silly old biddy,
he thought as he strode forward. It had been all he could do to keep the smile on his face as he’d listened to Henrietta Mayhew prattle on about his father like some starry-eyed girl. He doubted his father had even known she existed. Addlepated old women like her ought to know their place. Even more, they ought to know how to keep their mouths shut unless spoken to directly.

It’s what came of letting females run about without proper male guidance. Allerton really ought to take them in hand, he thought, but the boy was too weak and self-indulgent to do his familial duty. Far more apt to let his older sister lead him around by the apron strings than take a stand against her.

Julianna Hawthorne, now there was an attractive armful. A plump little partridge just waiting to be flushed from her nest. Long ago he might have made some overtures in her direction, but had decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. Thoughtful and reserved, she had too much stubborn willfulness in her, too much bold independence. She was the sort of woman who would put up a struggle, if required.

No doubt the reason she was still a widow.

Submissive women made far better wives, in his opinion. Women who knew to bow their heads and be thankful for the rule of a superior male. His own wife had been obedient. At least she had been once he’d taught her how to obey, how to bend to his needs and serve his will. Before her death, she’d become rather like a trained poodle, quivering and fearful yet always subtly begging for his attention and praise.

Too bad she’d outlived her usefulness.

He’d almost felt sorry when he’d had to put her down. He could still remember the sound of her neck snapping against the railing when he’d pushed her down the staircase, the way her gray eyes had stared upward, body broken like a doll’s.

Alas, her money was nearly gone now as well.

He gave his order to the waiter at the refreshment table, three lemonades and a port for himself. Tapping his fingers, he waited impatiently as the man moved away to fill the glasses.

Burton sighed. He supposed it was time he looked for a new wife—a rich one, of course, a match that would help replenish his dwindling resources. He’d drained the profits dry on his estate, raised tenant rents until they couldn’t be raised any more. Marriage, it would seem, was his only recourse.

The Davies chit was a comely little thing, sweet and pleasingly shy. Likely she would be biddable as well. He could easily imagine himself bedding her.

The waiter appeared, brimming glasses arranged on a tray. Burton bade the man to follow as he led him up to Lady Hawthorne’s box.

Yes, Burton decided, he would have to make discreet inquiries about Lady Maris’s finances. If her dowry was temptingly large, he just might make the effort to have her. After all, why bother marrying a plain heiress when you could wed a pretty one instead?

“So, did Challoner take the bait?”

Rafe poured draughts of Scotch whisky into a pair of heavy cut glass tumblers. Picking up the stopper, he fit it into the crystal decanter with a faint clink, then returned the container to its place inside the liquor cabinet. Crossing his study, he stopped to hand one of the glasses to the room’s other occupant.

Ethan Andarton, Marquis of Vessey, accepted the drink with a nod of his golden, leonine head. Rafe watched as his friend settled back in his chair and stretched out his Hessian-clad feet, his long, lean frame completely at his ease.

He and Ethan went back many years, meeting first as boys during a brawl when the two of them were students at Harrow. As Rafe recalled, he had been defending himself against the vicious slurs and fists of five other boys when Ethan rushed to aid him. Despite being outnumbered, the pair of them fought like demons, emerging bruised and victorious, and most of all, friends. A short time later, they added a third member to their small circle—Anthony “Tony” Black, already the Duke of Wyvern at only ten years of age. Despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, Ethan, Tony, and he had formed an unlikely and unbreakable association.

Since those days, life had taken them in separate, and not always pleasant, directions, but they had never completely lost touch, their loyalty and liking for one another remaining strong and vital to this day. He even forgave them for being aristocrats, a breed for which Rafe generally had little tolerance. But Ethan and Tony were rare exceptions—proud men who stood on their own merit. Men who could be trusted to keep a secret, or even agree to assist a friend in his quest to seek justice and revenge.

Rafe thought of Challoner and how good it was going to feel after years of waiting to see the blackguard pay for his sins.

“Oh, he took the bait all right,” Ethan confirmed, his amber eyes twinkling wryly in answer to Rafe’s initial question. “Snapped up the information like a hungry trout after an angler’s worm.”

Taking a seat in his wide leather desk chair, Rafe leaned back to absorb the news. Tipping his glass to one side, he gently swirled the spirits. At length, he drank a swallow, the alcohol strong and smooth against his tongue. “And Challoner wasn’t suspicious?”

“Not a bit. He eavesdropped on Tony and me in the gaming room at Brooks’s Club, just like you said he would. You should have seen the greed gleaming in his eyes. Our little stock tip quite put the winnings on the card tables to shame. And well it should have done after he listened to the pair of us speculate about the quick profits to be made.” Ethan paused to take a drink. “After all, as I made sure to ask Tony in a voice just loud enough for Challoner’s ears alone, how often does a man come across an opportunity to make a fortune from rare Indian silks, ivory, and trunks full of gold bullion?”

“Never, thankfully, in Challoner’s case.” Rafe said. “If only he knew those merchant ships and their precious cargo never made it into English waters, he’d be running the other way. But then, he doesn’t have the contacts to have heard that all four merchantmen were seized by the French near Gibraltar four days ago, the goods taken and the ships scuttled.”

“I doubt even the Foreign Office has that information yet,” Ethan quipped. “You know, you really must tell me one of these days how it is you’re privy to such timely and confidential information. Do you have access to a network of smugglers, or is it spies?”

Rafe smiled and said nothing as he opened a carved satinwood box on his desk to offer the other man a cigar. Then he asked, “You’re certain he bought shares this morning? Once word gets out of the loss, Kratcher and Sons Shipping will be in ruins.”

Ethan leaned forward and selected a cheroot. Using a silver cutter, he trimmed off one end. “I’m sure. Saw him purchase shares worth seventy-five thousand pounds. He was rubbing his hands when he came out of the Exchange, chuckling about what he was going to buy for himself first—a team of matched grays and a new carriage, or a hunting box in Scotland—since to quote him, he’ll soon be ‘richer than Prinny.’”