A Thoroughly Compromised Lady (7 page)

O
h God, did he know. It meant the rumours were right. There was a forged map. More than that, it meant Dulci was in great peril. He could no longer pretend her cargo wasn't the cargo Calisto Ortiz was looking for. The map made it a certainty. Still, there was one more test the map had to pass.

Jack held his breath, his suspicions high despite the plea that ran through his mind like a litany:
Please don't let it be the map.
But he was almost certain it was.

In the dim light, the map looked remarkably accurate based on his knowledge of the region. Jack leaned forwards and scrutinised a faintly darker line along the Essequibo that shouldn't be there. Based on currently recognised boundaries between the two territories, this map was a fraud.

Jack tamped down his fears. His imagination was running away with him. There was nothing to fear yet. No one knew Dulci had it yet. No one even remotely suspected she had it and no one would as long as she
didn't tell Señor Ortiz she had recently purchased artefacts or that she did business with a Señor Vasquez.

‘What is it, Jack?' Dulci queried at his silence.

‘Nothing,' he lied swiftly, placing a light trail of kisses on her shoulder where the blanket had slipped again. With one hand he pushed back the heavy weight of her hair, exposing her neck, his kisses moving upwards. ‘I was just thinking how much I'd rather explore you than a sheet of paper.'

Dulci turned in his arms, ready and eager in the wake of her excitement over the map. Jack hated himself. Never, ever mix business with pleasure. That was one rule he never broke. He ought to make his excuses to Dulci and track down Gladstone right away. But for the sake of business, he couldn't risk Dulci, in her excitement, telling Calisto Ortiz about her discovery during casual conversation on the dance floor. There were things he couldn't risk for the sake of pleasure either, such as Dulci's wrath at another interruption. In the wake of the débâcle in the garden, she would not under stand another abrupt departure. Especially now their relationship had somewhat changed.

Dulci reached between his legs, duplicating her earlier actions with a smile on her face. Jack groaned in expectation. He had to have time to think: what to do about the map, about Dulci. For now, the rules could go to hell.

 

Calisto Ortiz lifted his tumbler in a silent toast. He reclined against the leather comfort of his chair in his expensive suite of rooms. He took a sip of the excellent liquor, savouring its mellow tastes. Tonight, he was well satisfied and in good humour with the world. Vasquez
had been found, questioned and dispatched. And he, Calisto Ortiz, had the answers he wanted. In a vain attempt to save himself, Vasquez had told his captors who had bought the journal. Ironically, such an ad mission sealed the importer's fate.

Dulcinea Wycroft.

Calisto swirled the liquid in his glass. It was about as pleasant as surprises got. He'd not perceived the beautiful woman's interests went that deeply. Retrieving the map would be delightful and, with luck, there'd be no more need for another murder. Lady Dulcinea would have no idea what she possessed. Women had no head for politics and maps. All he had to do was gain access to her home and ask her to show off her collection. That should not be difficult. Surely she hosted an ‘at home' like other women he'd met here in London and surely, like other women in London, she found him charming enough for an invitation to call. It would be the work of a few seconds to pocket the journal during a well-placed kiss. A little flirtation and his plan would be back on track. Ah, yes, after a rough time, there would be some luck at last.

 

Two nights later at the Mayfield ball, the easy attitude Ortiz possessed was being severely tried. Dulcinea Wycroft had disappeared from society, making it rather difficult to pursue his plan to seduce the journal from her. He was not a patient man. He nodded politely to a passing group that stopped to exchange plea san tries, hiding his growing impatience. Where in the world was Dulcinea Wycroft?

 

Where the hell was Wainsbridge? Gladstone checked his watch for the third time on the perimeter of the
Mayfield ballroom. He dared not check it again. It was unseemly for a gentleman to glance at his watch too often at a ball. Such a pre occupation with time suggested he was only waiting until he could politely move on to the evening's other entertainments, hardly an endearing endorsement of one's hostess and Gladstone was careful not to upset hostesses.

Gladstone was getting impatient. He had news to share. He'd rather have shared his news in a more business-like setting, but time was short. He had not seen Wainsbridge in two days. It didn't help matters that Dulci had been absent from the usual circuit of entertainments too. Their mutual absence raised all nature of jealous conjecture in Gladstone's mind.

Four years ago, he'd made the delectable Lady Dulcinea an honourable proposal of marriage, knowing himself to be an entirely acceptable match for her. She'd refused him, left London quite suddenly in the dead of winter and turned up at her brother's home where Wainsbridge had also coincidently taken up residence a few weeks prior.

It all looked very suspicious to Gladstone, who could not fathom why Dulci Wycroft would turn him down unless there was another. That the other was a man whose only title had been
earned
through actual
work
and not inherited from the efforts of earlier generations, rubbed salt in Gladstone's wounded ego.

Gladstone glanced about the ballroom, which seemed reserved in its atmosphere tonight without the presence of London's most sharp-witted bachelor and the Season's reigning beauty. Others appeared to sense the difference too. A few columns over, Señor Ortiz, whom Wainsbridge was supposed to be watching, appeared bored
with the conversation about him. Every so often, Gladstone noticed the man's eyes drift over to the doorway then, disappointed, drift back to the group surrounding him, many of them women interested in testing the hypothesis of Spanish virility against the real thing.

Volume at the entrance rose suddenly. Gladstone resisted the temptation to look that direction. He kept his eyes fixed on Señor Ortiz, gauging the man's reaction to determine who had walked in. Ortiz's eyes lit up. Gladstone turned slowly to confirm his guesses. Already surrounded by admirers, Wainsbridge and Dulci Wycroft sailed into the ballroom, together, utterly beautiful. There was no handsomer couple in London. It was as if a great spark had been lit. The dancers whirled faster, the music's tempo was livelier, the laughter of the guests less brittle. Was it his imagination or did Lady Mayfield, the hostess, breathe a little easier?

Gladstone moved towards them, anxious to speak with Wainsbridge.

 

Dulci saw him coming with a sinking heart, her euphoria over the past two days disappearing with each approaching footstep. It didn't help that she knew it would be like this. Knowing didn't make it any better. She had hoped…oh, how she'd hoped. Gladstone shouldered his way through the crowd with none of Jack's con sum mate ease, stepping on feet, proverbial and other wise. A subtle unease crept slowly through her at the determined set of Gladstone's very square jaw and intent grey eyes. Reflexively, she tightened her light grip on Jack's arm.

‘I don't think he's here for you, m'dear,' Jack mur
mured, detecting Gladstone's less-than-discreet progress towards them. ‘Tonight, it's me he wants.'

His words were an effective killjoy. Dulci knew what he meant. Back to work. Their sweet interlude was over, and if not over, then definitely on hiatus. When Jack ‘worked' he disappeared for stretches at a time. He might surface after a few days or it may be months before he rejoined society. No one knew where he went or what he did until afterwards and then only in vague snatches. Whatever he did, he had done it well enough to earn the accolade of viscount. His services were viewed as valuable to his monarch and to his country.

‘Lady Dulcinea, you're looking ravishing tonight.' Gladstone bowed over her hand, his eyes lingering on her face in his usual annoying manner, searching for any sign of affection.

‘Gladstone,' Dulci answered with stiff politeness. She dare not give him even the slightest of polite encouragements. After four years, he'd proven to be the most tenacious of all her would-be suitors. Her quiet rejection had not resulted in the desired effect. If anything, the rejection had made him more persistent.

‘Wainsbridge, I'm hoping I might have a private word with you.'

‘And I am hoping Lady Dulcinea will favour me with a dance.' Jack's eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘What do you think our odds are of both of us getting our wishes?' Those around them laughed. Gladstone narrowed his lips into a grim line, unamused at Jack's light humour.

Dulci did her duty, masking her immense disappointment. ‘Wainsbridge, go on with Gladstone. I am sure Lord Gilmore can admirably dance attendance on me until your return.' She smiled at young Gilmore, who
seemed over whelmed by the honour she was bestowing on him.

‘Very well, it's all been arranged, Gladstone.' Jack shot Gladstone an ungrateful glare. ‘I believe there's a library just down the hall that will suit our purposes. If you'll follow me?'

Dulci fought the urge to follow Jack with her eyes, but that was the behaviour of a besotted fool in love. She dare not give the gossips any grist for their mills. People accepted that she and Wainsbridge might occasionally be seen together because of his friendship with her brother and long association with the Wycroft family. Their clever wagers and sharp humour ensured people believed them tenuous friends at best, two persons who would not have sought the other out if it hadn't been for Brandon Wycroft, which had been somewhat true until that evening in the orangery. Dulci had no desire to change society's perception. She did not want anyone speculating about the true nature of her association with Jack, especially not now that she had something truly scandalous to hide. How could anyone under stand it, this need that drove her towards him? She hardly under stood it herself.

So she danced with Gilmore, and then with Carstairs's son, being sure to avoid his feet whenever possible; when she couldn't, she assured him he hadn't hurt her toes in the least. She managed to laugh, to lightly flirt, to drink the punch they all brought her, and to avoid looking at the ballroom door in the hopes that Jack would come sailing back through when she knew very well that he wouldn't.

 

Shortly before midnight, Dulci contrived a moment alone and escaped the hot ballroom for the cooler locale
of the verandah. The verandah was nearly deserted; most couples were inside dancing the supper waltz and making preparations to go into the late-night meal. Tonight was far different than the setting she'd found herself in the previous night. And far less enjoyable. The last few days had been a whirlwind of experiences and it felt good to get away by herself for a moment. She was still reeling from what had transpired with Jack. It was amazing society couldn't tell the difference. She
felt
different. But apparently all the changes were internal. There was no external proof of her escapade.

Dulci found an empty chair and sank into it, grateful for the respite. Pretending light ness and hap pi ness when one felt neither was deuced hard work.

She closed her eyes and slowly plied her fan. She drew a deep, cleansing breath and expelled it. That was better. She had known it would come to this with Jack, this disappearing without any warning. She'd known it could come at any time, two weeks from now, or the moment they stepped back into Society, as indeed it had. Knowing didn't make it easier to accept. Neither did knowing he'd made her no promises. She couldn't be angry with him for breaking what had never been.

‘I do not think he's coming back tonight.'

Dulci's eyes flew open at the sound of the accented voice, soft and close. ‘Señor Ortiz!'

‘I have startled you, Señorita Wycroft. That was not my intention.' He pulled up a small chair and settled himself on it. ‘A lovely woman should never be disappointed by a man. I think you would find many of us would fix our attentions on you more firmly than the viscount's divided ones.' He reached for her gloved hand
lying in her lap, and traced a pattern on the back of her hand.

Calisto Ortiz was handsome and intuitive, a deadly combination when it came to a woman's virtue. Dulci recognised it immediately. Jack carried the very same qualities. But with Ortiz, she found herself to be immune.

‘One can only be disappointed if there are expectations to be met in the first place.' Dulci smiled coldly, retracting her hand, making sure her message was clear. ‘I have no expectations of Wainsbridge. Ergo, I cannot be disappointed by his abbreviated attentions.'

Ortiz was not deterred. He merely gave a Latin shrug and sighed. He sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his dark hair. ‘Ah, so that's how it is with Wainsbridge. He is a man who keeps his work as his mistress. What called him away tonight? Was it business with a ship? A new cargo? Investments? Perhaps a new property to consider?' There was an insult in the enquiry—the idea that a real gentleman had no work.

Dulci shrewdly assessed the Spaniard, careful not to give away too much with any admissions. He was flirting for a purpose and he had boldly guessed far too much about her and Jack. What did he want? Revenge for the insult Jack paid him a few nights ago? She would not know if she turned him away. Dulci rose and smoothed her skirts. ‘The Mayfield gardens are decent, Señor, and their roses are considered quite fine. I could show you, if you wished. Do you grow many roses in Venezuela?'

‘I would love a look. I am an avid botanist myself when I am home. I have an extensive green house.' Ortiz offered his arm. ‘Is Wainsbridge a botanist?'

Dulci laughed, a real laugh this time, nothing like the
laughter she'd conjured up to please her dance partners. The very idea of Jack puttering with rose clip pings in a hothouse bordered on hilarious. Jack could not be caged by walls. His green house was the whole wide world.