A Thoroughly Compromised Lady (3 page)

Dulci often wondered if anyone else saw that quality in Jack. The longer she knew him, the more she didn't know him. He was a master of illusion. One only saw what Jack wanted to show and she'd been as easily duped on occasion as the rest.

She no more knew what truly drove Jack than any other member of the
ton
. She'd like to know more. Since the night in the orangery she'd been thinking rather a lot about Jack, her attentions drawn to whatever rumour was circulating about him any given week. She'd heard since Christmas he'd been busy kissing Lady Scofield in her big gardens at Lambeth.

A delicious tremor shot through Dulci. Had he truly brought her out here, into this garden, to do the same? Would she,
should
she, let him? Those Christmas kisses had dominated too much of her mind. She couldn't deny the truth; she wanted Jack to kiss her and perhaps do more than kiss her. Her body could not forget the heat Jack's hands had invoked, the need for something more that his body had awakened in hers. She wanted to feel that way again, wanted him to wake her again.

She opted for a show of so phistication. She didn't want Jack thinking she was overly eager if he actually had seduction on his mind. Nor did she want to be over-eager if he
didn't
; such a miscalculation would be embarrassing and only serve to stoke his already over-inflated sense of self-importance.

‘What now, Jack?' Dulci gave him a practised, coy smile. She moved into the alcove, surveying its furnishings with an assessing look. ‘The fountain is probably not an option, but perhaps the bench is a possibility.'

‘Did you consider I might not have asked you out here to seduce you? I seem to recall in the ballroom that you
were rankly against such a venue.' Jack leaned against a stone column at the alcove's entrance, looking urbane and relaxed, very much at home with the situation. But Dulci could feel his eyes, hot and direct, following her movements. She could not fool him for long. He was experienced enough to know the game was afoot.

‘Since when has that ever stopped you, Jack? The greater the challenge, the harder you try.' She trailed a hand in the fountain.

‘I have been known to rise to the occasion.' Jack grinned wickedly and stepped towards her. ‘I have the firmest of resolves, or so I've been told.'

She recognised that
cicisbeo
smile of his all too well. It was his stock in trade in London ballrooms, the smile that said she was the centre of his attention, that every wish, every desire was about to be fulfilled and more. She'd seen many women believe it. It was easy to believe that smile. She believed in it now against better sense.

Dulci stepped back wards, striving to create more space between them. She had not come to the Fotheringay ball looking for this. Indeed, she had not expected to find Jack here at all. The Season was too young. She'd thought she'd have a few weeks to herself before Jack came to wreak havoc on her senses. She'd thought she'd heard he was out of town. ‘You've gathered all the other women to your banner tonight, Jack. You have no need of me as well.'

‘But you're the only one I want.' Jack was grinning broadly now. Drat him, he knew he had her on the run.

‘No, it's simply your arrogance, Jack. You can't stand not having every woman in the room swooning at your feet.'

Jack laughed, the sharp planes of his aristocratic face melting into boyish playfulness. ‘By Jove, Dulci, no one quite cuts me down to size like you do, and goodness knows on occasion I need it.' He looked ten years younger, whatever secret cares he bore dissolving, minimising the darkness and mystery that limned him like a nimbus around the sun since his return to En gland. It occurred to her to wonder what he'd been like before? Surely he hadn't always been this way? How did a man become like Jack?

‘Dulci.' The sound of her name on his lips was an invitation to sin. It was enough and it succeeded where all Jack's calculated foreplay had fallen short. She was in his arms in an instant, letting her body savour the strength of him, the feel of him, the almond scent of his soap, letting her mind forget all the reasons this was going to be a bad idea. His mouth took hers in a long, slow kiss, teasing her with its languorous exploration, one hand at the back of her neck, fingers entwined in her hair. The heat in her started to rise.

‘I'm sorry about the orangery, Dulci,' Jack murmured, with sincere penitence. How could she not forgive him? Then something caught her eye over Jack's shoulder and she froze, her mind remembering all the reasons.

Jack nuzzled her neck encouragingly. ‘Dulci, this is where you say you're sorry too about throwing that pot and you run your hands through my hair looking for any remnants of that damnable lump you gave me.'

‘I don't think so, Jack.' Dulci pushed against his chest and stepped back, the moment lost to reality and disappointment. She'd been so ready to believe. She gave a flick of her head, nodding for Jack to turn around. It was the orangery all over again.

A throat cleared in the nominal darkness. A nervous, blushing page dressed in the royal livery of Hanover stammered his message. ‘Excuse me, my lord. I have an urgent message from Clarence House. I was told to find you and tell you to come at once.'

Dulci watched Jack straighten his shoulders almost imperceptibly, the boyish pleasure that had so recently wreathed his face instantly subdued. The transformation happened so swiftly, it was possible to think she'd imagined the other. Jack pressed a few coins into the messenger's hand, no doubt meant to buy his silence regarding where and how the boy had found the viscount and sent him on before turning back to her.

‘Dulci, I'm sorry. I have to leave. May I escort you back inside?' He was all duty now. Did this happen with all his women or was it just her bad luck? She hadn't heard, but then again she couldn't imagine anyone wanting to brag Jack had thrown them over for a government summons.

‘What could the king want this time of night? Isn't he off to his own clubs and entertainments?' Dulci had recognised the address immediately: the residence of William IV.

‘England never sleeps, Dulci.' Jack gave her a kind smile that she found condescending.

‘Don't patronise me, Jack,' Dulci snapped.

‘I'll call on you tomorrow,' Jack offered. But she would have none of his olive-branch brand of pity.

‘I will not be home to you. I am not going to become one of your easy women who let you kiss them whenever you pass through town.' Dulci pushed past him, angrier at herself than at him. Jack would always be Jack, whoever that really was. As much time as she'd spent lis
tening to rumours she'd thought she'd have under stood that by now. She would find her own way back inside and, after a decent interval, she'd leave. The night had lost its lustre. But he halted her with a warm chuckle that said he didn't believe her bluff for a moment.

‘You can't ignore me, Dulci. Very well, don't receive me. But I will see you tomorrow night. At the Danby rout, if you remember,' Jack called softly. ‘I'll be the one in azure. Perhaps we can rename the ball the Blue Danby ball. It can be our private joke.'

She didn't want anything ‘private' with Jack. Dulci fisted her hands in her gown where no one could see, her temper rising. It was just like Jack to make a joke when she was mad. Damn it all. She'd already forgot about the wager. She allowed herself the un lady like luxury of stomping her foot in frustration on the garden path. She'd known from the start coming out here with Jack was a bad idea; anything with Jack was a bad idea as she'd proven yet again. At least she'd have plenty to berate herself with on the lonely carriage ride home.

 

The carriage was crowded for all that there was only one person in it, thanks to the enormity of her thoughts, Dulci groused an hour later. She felt slightly better thinking it was Jack's fault, but that wasn't entirely true. He'd merely opened Pandora's box with his kisses and let loose all nature of strange feelings and emotions into her world. Hopefully common sense hadn't got out with the rest. Maybe it still hung there like a butterfly with one wing caught in the closed box lid, the other wing struggling for release. It certainly wasn't still in the box—tonight had illustrated that. At best, she had only half of it left.

Jack had awakened the curiosities of both mind and body. She was twenty-six and seriously doubted she would ever make a marriage that suited her temperament. But that didn't stop her from wanting to know the mysteries of the marriage bed, the secrets of satisfying the passions of the body.

She was not so naïve as to be unaware that a certain calibre of gentleman had offered to solve that mystery for her. To date, she'd always been quick to scotch any efforts in the direction. Some risks were simply not worth taking. The kind of gentleman who offered such gratification was not the kind of gentleman who would keep her secrets. Good heavens, Amberston hadn't even kept their horse race secret. One could only guess what someone like him would do with an even bigger secret.

Jack was different.
The shocking thought nearly jolted her off the carriage seat. An idea came to Dulci. Why not Jack? Any woman with eight seasons behind her, virgin or not, knew when a man desired her and Jack had wanted her. Perhaps he only wanted her for a night, for the novelty of it.

Whatever his motives, he did want her and that was all that mattered. If his wanting lasted only a night, so much the better. She was looking to satisfy her curiosity, nothing long term. Jack had already proven he could wake her passions and he'd already proven he could be discreet. He kept secrets for the Empire. He could surely keep one short liaison from public consumption and he would never tell Brandon.

Dulci tapped her chin with a gloved finger. Hmm. Brandon might be a sticking point. She would have to overcome any resistance his friendship with Brandon
might pose. Then she laughed out loud in the empty carriage at the ridiculous notions passing through her head. She was actually sitting here planning how to seduce the notorious Viscount Wainsbridge! She needed her head examined. What woman of virtue deliberately gave away her greatest asset? Moreover, in her numerous seasons she'd seen with her own eyes what happened to the young girls who'd fallen prey to various pre-marital temptations. The world wasn't big enough for a fallen woman.

A wicked voice whispered its rebuttal:
only if you get caught. You haven't been caught yet. Jack's perfect—discreet, skilled and in no mood to get caught himself. He might even empathise with you…

She could laugh all night at the odd ideas floating through her mind, but Dulci could not quell the growing sense that in spite of all the decent reasons not to go through with it, she just might.

J
ack Hanley, the
first
Viscount Wainsbridge for all of five years, always answered the king's summons to Clarence House with alacrity and anxiety no matter what time of day or night it came or whose bed it found him in. Alacrity because one did not keep his monarch waiting, especially when one possessed a title as new as his. Anxiety because he knew the summons was merely a prelude to upheaval. William would not have called him if something had not been afoot that needed his special attentions. No doubt there'd been a development with the Venezuelans, but he was suspicious that it had occurred so quickly. He'd only met them an hour ago.

‘I need you to stop a war.' William said abruptly as Jack entered. Jack merely nodded as if such statements were commonplace conversation and shut the door of the Clarence House study behind him. He had suspected as much. The initial rumours had been con firmed, then.

‘When, your Majesty?' He took in the room with
a sweeping glance, nodding curtly to the third man present, Viscount Gladstone from the Foreign Office.

William IV toyed idly with a pa per weight. ‘The war hasn't precisely happened yet. But I have it on good authority from Gladstone here that it will if we don't take steps now.'

Ah, it was to be a pre-emptive action then. He was good at that. Jack took the liberty of pouring himself a brandy at the sideboard. He took a seat and expertly flipped up the tails of his evening wear, sliding a careful glance at Gladstone. He had personal reasons for not liking the man. Gladstone made no secret of his contempt for Jack's inferior birth and first-generation title. But professionally, the man possessed an astonishing acumen for foreign intelligence.

‘Tell Wainsbridge what you've told me,' William said.

Gladstone cleared his throat. ‘Venezuela is con testing its shared borders with British Guiana. They wish to extend their boundaries. It goes without saying that we are not interested in giving up our claims to that territory.' Gladstone stood up and walked to a long table, gesturing for Jack to follow.

With a long finger, Gladstone traced the boundaries on a map spread before them. ‘The border in question is south-east of the Essequibo River.'

Jack nodded. He was one of the few who under stood the magnitude of rivers in British Guiana. The marshy topography of British Guiana made coastal rivers the only thorough fares into the interior. ‘This is no small contention. We're dealing with approximately thirty-thousand square miles of property.' In a land of marshes and rivers, such territory was worth squabbling over.

Jack looked up from the map, back to where William sat. This information was not new to him. Indeed, it had been at the root of his presence at the Fotheringay ball. What he didn't know were the motives behind it. ‘Do we have any speculations as to why Venezuela is suddenly interested in this section of territory?'

For centuries, ever since Britain had first staked a claim to Guiana in the sixteen hundreds, Spain had not done more than establish a handful of missions along the border. The border had been undefined and peaceful. Of course, it was an in de pen dent Venezuela now, not Spain that shared the border. Perhaps after a little over ten years of independence, Venezuela was flexing its muscle in the region.

‘That's where you come in, Wainsbridge.' William leaned back in his chair, hands steepled.

‘Of course, anything, your Majesty. I am always at your service,' Jack said easily, hiding his apprehension. He'd had to train himself over the last few years to stay alert in William's presence. The man acted more like a retired naval officer—which he was—than royalty—which had been a far-fetched possibility once. It was easy to forget that the tall, white-haired man with a soft chin and friendly eyes commanded a nation. Being with the man felt almost ordinary, like being with a beloved uncle until one remembered that, unlike the uncle who could be refused, one could not refuse the king.

‘As you know, you've been asked to determine how real rumours of this border dispute are. I am interested in hearing how your evening went with the Venezuelan delegation.'

‘I met them, but just barely.' Jack eyed Gladstone
suspiciously. None of this was urgent or beyond what he already knew. Why the emergency summons?

Gladstone flicked a glance at William. ‘There's been a further development. One of the gentlemen in the delegation is heavily influenced by a private and powerful consortium of Venezuelan businessmen who are eager to profit from the boundary dispute. We want to identify him as quickly as possible. It is believed the gentleman, whoever he is, may be in possession of a forged map that shows Venezuela's “preferred” boundaries. He may try to pass it off as a legitimate document and use it as evidence to force a new treaty of limits.'

Jack immediately thought of Calisto Ortiz, his smooth manners and his ‘ombudsman' attachment to the delegation—official but unofficial. Jack returned to his chair and sat back to give his report.

‘I think we can eliminate Adalberto Vargas. He's the senior member, in his early fifties. From his manners tonight, he's from a more traditional school of diplomacy. He's not likely to be swayed by such risky and under handed tactics like a forged map.

‘Neither would it be Hector Dias. He does not have either the suave mannerisms of Ortiz or the intellectual back ground of Vargas.' Jack surmised Hector Dias was a man who'd no doubt begun his career in mid-level staff positions with various embassies and would likely end his career there as well. The cut and cloth of his clothes at the ball had certainly suggested as much. The man hadn't the wealth at his disposal to match the wardrobes of Ortiz or Vargas.

‘So that leaves Calisto Ortiz,' Gladstone put in, a note of triumph in his voice that it had been so easy to detect a likely candidate.

‘Yes. He's the flam boy ant charmer of the group. He's also there as an ombudsman, so the rules he must follow are much more lax than the other two. His English is excellent, and his connections even more so. He's a nephew to one of the regional Venezuelan viceroys with family connections to the governor. He's a likely choice.'

‘We'll start putting together a more detailed dossier on him now that we know what to look for,' Gladstone said. ‘If he's so well connected, British intelligence surely has information on his family. Perhaps he's organising a plantation movement. Plantations are big business in that part of the world.'

‘Not
that
big,' Jack scoffed at the theory. Gladstone scowled at him, the old antagonism between them rising.

‘I'd love to hear your ideas,' Gladstone retorted.

Choosing to ignore the slight, Jack returned to the map and stared thoughtfully at the outlined area, an idea forming in his mind. Businessmen weren't interested in the natural beauty of a land. There was something lucrative in the river valley, a valuable resource.

He spoke a single word to the room at large. ‘Gold.'

‘Gold?' Gladstone replied, incredulous.

‘You forget, I've actually been to the region. I was there in 1830 after I helped Schomburgk on his Anegada expedition.' Jack smoothly interjected his credentials into the conversation. His work there had laid the grounds for being awarded the viscountcy. ‘The river valleys are too wet and the forests in the interior are too dense for serious farming. Businessmen aren't looking to
put up a plantation community in this region. No profit.' Gladstone looked like he'd gladly throttle him.

William broke in to defuse the tension. ‘We want to be certain in regards to what they're after. We can use that knowledge to grease negotiations if we must. Until then, Wainsbridge, Ortiz is yours. I want to know what has made the area an urgent point of interest and how far they're willing to go to get it.'

Dismissed, they took their leave of the monarch and made their way through Clarence House to the front door. Jack was glad he had his coach. He did not want to share a hackney with Gladstone. They stepped out into the night air.

Jack's coach waited at the kerb but Gladstone couldn't resist a final jab as Jack stepped up to the door. ‘I hear we have a mutual acquaintance in Lady Dulcinea Wycroft.'

‘You hear the most amazing things, Gladstone,' Jack returned.

‘I see them too, some times,' came Gladstone's cryptic reply.

‘You've never got over Lady Dulcinea jilting you.' Jack's reply was cool, but inside he was seething. Gladstone must have had men watching the ballroom that night, checking out the Venezuelan delegation on his own even though Jack had been given the job. He would not put it past Gladstone to have forced a meeting tonight simply to drag him away from Dulci.

Anger clouded Gladstone's face. ‘Behind those clothes you're nothing but a scrapper, a no-account country squire's son. I can only imagine how many boots you had to lick to rise this far.'

‘Whereas I am sure you're quite clear on the boots
you've had to lick. No imagining there. Your family's been currying favour since the sixteen hundreds. Dirty business that, two centuries of boot-licking.' Jack stepped into his coach and held the door open for a moment. ‘Goodnight, Gladstone.'

He slammed the coach door and sank back against the squabs, less sanguine than he'd let on. This was dicey business with the Venezuelan delegation. Negotiations of this nature were always very covert, hardly ever making the public news, but that didn't make them less dangerous. Usually, they were more so. Without the check and balance of being in the public eye, there were no rules to govern them. Still, it would be business as usual if Dulci wasn't involved. But she was—placed right at the centre of the storm because of her connection to the three men most intrinsically concerned. There was going to be trouble. He could feel it in his bones.

 

Dulci Wycroft firmly believed trouble found you when you least expected it. She had an antidote for that: she expected trouble.

Always.

She'd learned early that collecting artefacts wasn't exactly an old maid's safe hobby. Not that she thought of herself as an old maid, although she'd reached the august age of twenty-six, trailing a string of six refusals of marriage behind her. Nor was she looking for safe.

If she was, she wouldn't be here, or a lot of the other places she'd been. Her hand flexed and closed around the small gun in her pocket, her sharp eyes alert to any suspicious movements in the dim interior of the dockside warehouse. Warehouses in the dock districts were not
foreign venues to her. But this one, set in a rough part of Southwark, was by far the worst.

She'd been glad she'd decided to bring her own unmarked coach instead of relying on public hansom cabs. She'd noticed that the deeper into the area she'd journeyed the presence of cabs had dried up, a sure testimony to the unsavoury nature of the environs, the noise and com parable respectability of Hays Wharf far behind them.

A man moved from the shadows. Dulci tensed and then relaxed. She might not completely trust this man, but she knew him. He was her reason for being here in these rather questionable surroundings.

He strode forwards, well-dressed and olive skinned.
‘Señorita, buenos días!'
he effused, lavishly bowing over her hand, too lavishly. Sweat lightly beaded his upper lip and Dulci noted immediately that the lavish gesture was a mask for the man's anxiety. The usual self-confidence the man possessed seemed oddly absent today.

Dulci withdrew her hand as soon as it was politely possible, her tones haughty and clipped. ‘Señor Vasquez, let us dispense with the plea san tries. What do you have for me that is so urgent it could not wait out the afternoon?' Señor Vasquez's note had ruled out the chance to catch the Royal Geographic Society's lecture on the West Indies in its entirety, but with luck she might still make the last part.

‘I have artefacts from the Americas.' He gestured towards an opened crate, but Dulci didn't miss the quick dart of his eyes.

‘Are you expecting anyone else,
señor
?' Dulci asked
keenly, her own eyes conducting a quick investigation of the warehouse too.

‘I have many appointments,
señorita
. I merely wish you to see these items privately. They're from Venezuela, your latest area of interest.'

‘Really?' Dulci replied coolly, raising her eyebrows a fraction of an inch to indicate only mild appreciation. A display of unabashed delight would only serve to increase Señor Vasquez's price.

Dulci reached into the crate with one hand, parting the straw packing with one gloved hand. The other hand cautiously remained in her pocket, her eyes unwaveringly fixed on Señor Vasquez. Her hand met with stone and she pulled out a carved statue. Vasquez did indeed know her interests well.

‘It's a
zemi
.' Dulci fought hard to keep the rising excitement out of her voice, studying the object reverently in the poor light. The idol was devoid of any garments and the stone carving indicated breasts and a rounded belly. ‘It's an idol of a native god, or goddess in this case. Unless I am completely mistaken, this is a fertility fetish.' She stared at him in stark contemplation, oblivious to his discomfort at such frank discussion. ‘Did this come with a—?'

‘A bowl?' Vasquez finished for her. ‘But of course,
señorita
.' His eyes flashed with a mocking chagrin. ‘I would not give you only part of a set.'

Dulci set down the carving and with both hands delved beneath the straw packing. She felt the shallow dip of a bowl. ‘Yes, there it is.' She withdrew a stone bowl and set it in place. ‘There, Señor Vasquez, you can see how it all goes together. The idols are flat headed
so that a stone bowl can be placed on top of their heads for worship.'

‘
Buena, señorita.
Name a price, and it shall be yours.'