Lamely, he supplied, "It's just easier to avoid clarifications."
"Easier for whom?"
He wasn't about to get into the odious details, so instead, he confessed, "Gabriel would never hurt Lady Elizabeth."
"There are different kinds of
hurt,
John," she gently urged. "You understand that."
"Yes, I do."
"Lady Elizabeth has been very sheltered in her upbringing. A dishonest gentleman could effortlessly take advantage of her."
"I realize that"
"Your son seems very ... worldly."
"He is."
"I care for Elizabeth. I've known her since she was a babe, and she's had a difficult life, particularly in recent months. I wouldn't want her maltreated. By anyone." She hesitated a beat, men inquired, "Will your son make her happy?"
"Yes, he will."
"Swear it to me."
"I swear it."
She nodded, accepting his vow, but her threat was clear: If Gabriel did anything to aggrieve Lady Elizabeth, Mary would intervene. What a catastrophe that would be!
He was inordinately curious as to what she'd just described as their lifelong relationship. "Are you a friend of Lady Elizabeth's?"
"Me? Goodness no. I'm her employee. Her head housekeeper, but I wouldn't like to—"
"You
are the head housekeeper for the Earl of Norwich?" He was dismayed, and rude because of it.
"Yes."
"Then you're Findley's—" He didn't dare finish.
After a protracted delay, she sternly probed, "I am the earl's... what?"
He hadn't meant to refer to the earl, or to the secret confidence that Findley's first wife, Pamela, had shared decades earlier, but he was shocked at discovering Mary's identity.
She was a homewrecker! A jezebel! A strumpet!
How ironic! He'd finally met a woman with whom he possessed a liberal corporeal affinity only to learn that she was little more than a paid courtesan.
"Nothing," he insisted, coming to his senses. To where had his manners disappeared? For all his profligate habits, he was still a gentleman. "Forgive me. I was out of line."
"Yes, you were," she retorted sharply.
Flagrantly furious, she stood, as did he, and she marched to the hallway, plainly ready to stomp out to the cottage and retrieve her employer, but they were saved from an embarrassing scene by Lady Elizabeth's appearance in the corridor. She was energized and ecstatic in a fashion she hadn't been upon arrival, so something had obviously transpired. An embrace, perhaps? An ardent kiss?
She would definitely wish to return for a subsequent appointment, but would Mary Smith let her? How much control did the housekeeper have over the noblewoman? And in light of the earl's remarriage, what was the status of Mary Smith's ongoing, intimate relationship with him? Was she still in a position to voice her suspicions?
"Lady Elizabeth"—he smoothed over the perilous moment—"I trust your session went well?"
"It was marvelous," she replied animatedly. "Mr. Cristofore is a fabulous artist."
"His
son,
Lady Elizabeth," Mary caustically charged.
"What?"
"His real name is Gabriel Cristofore Preston. Mr. Cristofore is Mr. Preston's son." Mary Smith glared in his direction. Where before she'd looked at him with perplexity and an amount of affection, now he saw only scorn and contempt. "It's just a little game they play at the expense of unsuspecting women."
"Mary—" he tried, feeling horrid.
"Miss Smith to you!"
Lady Elizabeth's mood was too exuberant, her sentiments too distracted, so she didn't catch the import of Mary's disclaimer or the undercurrents of their discord. Pleasantly, she said, "Well, then, your
son
is a fabulous artist. I can't wait for our next interview."
"I'm needed at home, milady," Mary remarked. "The driver is out front. Shall we go?" She efficiently maneuvered Elizabeth toward the door where the butler proffered their cloaks. When John moved to escort them to their carriage, she cast a contemptuous glance over her shoulder. "We don't require your presence, Mr. Preston. We can find our own way."
He tarried at the parlor's threshold, watching them depart, while rueing his mishandling of the situation. What effect would his bungling have on Gabriel's venture? Had he imprudently wrecked the entire endeavor? More importantly, how would he ever make amends to Mary for his terrible gaffe?
Charlotte Harcourt, Countess of Norwich, dawdled at her mirror and made a final assessment of her coif and gown.
Her blue evening dress was modishly styled, emphasizing her inadequate breasts and unsuitable cleavage. She adjusted the bodice, yanking at her corset, striving to supplement fullness where there was none. The diamond necklace the earl had conferred as an engagement gift dangled over the swell of her bosom, catching the light and underscoring the dramatic turn her life had precipitously taken. She twirled back and forth, examining herself from every angle,
"Quite fetching." She blew a kiss at her reflection.
With her shimmering blond hair piled high, and her face delicately colored with paints, she was majestic, precisely how one of the most prominent women in the land should appear before going down to sup with her illustrious husband.
"Look at me now, you silly twits!" she muttered, thinking of the dozens of other girls who'd vied for the earl. But she'd wanted to be a countess more than any of them, and now she was.
Many of her former rivals were still green with envy, especially those who hadn't wed and who were now considered to be on the shelf. They were bitter, spreading rumors that—with her father only a baron—she'd married above herself, that the earl had been so smitten by her comeliness that he hadn't bothered to delve into the state of her dowry, or the condition of the properties she'd brought to the union.
They'd even maliciously gossiped that the earl hadn't really cared whom he married, that he'd merely been in a hurry. In their spiteful version, they claimed any girl would have sufficed, and as she'd been more eager man the others, his decision had been easy.
Well, she'd shown them all. Besides, as her mother frequently pointed out, the level of their grumbling was in direct proportion to their paltry jealousies, so she mustn't torment herself over any of the stories they disseminated.
Still, it was painful to realize how many covetous, resentful people there were in the world. With so many begrudging her her good fortune, she tried not to flaunt her ascendance, but honestly, how could a girl be expected to hide the boons she'd acquired through excessive planning and hard work?
She'd married one of the wealthiest, most respected men in the kingdom. He parleyed with the revered leaders of government and industry. Why, the Prince Regent himself sought out the earl's advice and counsel! He was lauded and extolled, fawned over, his favor curried. Underlings begged for his notice or assistance, and she was his wife. His countess. The most beautiful, ravishing female in all of London, which made it acutely difficult to comprehend why she hadn't been welcomed into high society.
From the instant her engagement had been announced, she should have been bumped to the top of the social ladder, a preferred guest for soirees, musicales, and teas, the best balls and parties. Instead, she was constantly overlooked or downright omitted.
Initially, she'd been bewildered. Then hurt. Finally, embarrassment had set in. A distinct pattern was clear, and the only conclusion she could reach was that she was being intentionally discounted.
Her mother insisted that, by now, she should have established herself as London's premier hostess. Her suppers should be the talk of the town, with people anxious for invitations, but the reality was that she could scarcely conjure up enough bodies to fill the chairs at the table.
A malevolent gleam came into her eye. It was Mary Smith's fault. The incompetent housekeeper's inefficiency had spoiled three banquets. Elizabeth was culpable, too, for rejecting Charlotte's attempts to fire the inept woman. Who did Elizabeth think she was, issuing orders and countermanding Charlotte's edicts? The town house was no longer Elizabeth's domain, but she refused to recognize that fact.
If Charlotte could just get the earl to listen to her complaint about Mary Smith! Once briefly, she'd tried to raise the feasibility of termination, but the earl had cut off her complaint and brutally reprimanded her. Every time she recalled how he'd humiliated her, she bristled. The matter was so vital to her contentment, yet he wouldn't support her.
She'd have liked to give him a piece of her mind on the topic, but as always happened when she was around her husband, she'd held her tongue because, much as she hated to admit it, she was afraid of him.
He was so old, so large, so intimidating! He exuded power and authority, and he wielded both in a manner that was terrifying. His temper was legendary, and he used contempt like a weapon, repeatedly making her feel ten years old, completely helpless, and irrelevant. She despised him for his disrespectful treatment, but more often, she loathed him for what he did to her in the night when he visited her room.
Her mother had sufficiently apprised her of what would occur in the marriage bed, but still, she'd been so shocked, so repulsed, by his nocturnal thoroughness. She shuddered from contemplating the degradations to which she was steadily subjected. He brought a lamp, which he kept lit; he made her disrobe, made her touch him, turn over, and do disgusting things with her hands and mouth.
As a veritable innocent, how could she have predicted the secret horrors of the wedded condition?
Yet, she knew her duty, and she did it without complaint. As her mother had explained, it was the price she had to pay for the rest, but his preoccupation with the marital act certainly made it arduous to speak civilly with him during the day.
If she would just begin increasing! For the past six months, she'd submitted to him—oftimes twice and thrice a night!—and there was no babe to show for her submissive efforts!
With each successive month, the earl grew more displeased, subtly reminding her that she was failing to fulfill the sole obligation of marriage. To her chagrin, others were beginning to think the same. She could see the pitying looks from the staff, the whispers of so-called friends. Whenever she went visiting, people cast furtive glances at her stomach until she yearned to shout at them to leave her be! She was trying her best! At every task presented!
If only she could wrest control of her house from Mary Smith and Elizabeth! She would bring her mother to town from the country, so that she could receive valid counsel on social transactions, and sound guidance as to supervising the servants. With her mother in residence, everyone would shortly grasp that she was a force with which to be reckoned!
The clock chimed the hour and, as she was now forty-five minutes late, she decided to go down. The earl and Elizabeth would be impatient over the delay she'd caused.
The earl rarely addressed her, so tardiness was a sure technique for garnering his notice. As to Elizabeth, Charlotte loved to irritate and annoy the older woman. Punctuality was one of Elizabeth's premium virtues, and Charlotte strove to ensure that supper was unceasingly postponed just so that Elizabeth would be exasperated.
She left her bedchamber and strolled to the landing, carefully timing her steps so that-—in case anyone was watching—she seemed to float down the curving staircase. Serenely, she approached the parlor. The door was ajar, and she was thoroughly piqued that no footman was attendant to announce her, thereby foiling her grand entrance.
Under Mary Smith's lackadaisical administration, the staff was impossible! The servants were little more than hooligans who should be thrown out to fend for themselves in the vile neighborhoods where they'd been bred.
Well, she'd deal with the situation later! For now, she smoothed her frown and forced calm into her demeanor, as she fluttered into the salon. "Sorry I'm late, milord, I was just..."
The room was empty! They hadn't been waiting for her!
They wouldn't dare go in to supper without her! Would they?
Fuming, she tiptoed to the door that adjoined the dining room and peeked inside. It, too, was vacant, a lone retainer loitering next to the sideboard.
"Where could they be?" she seethed.
Sneaking to the hallway, she peered out, relieved that none of her slothful employees were lurking. She crept to the rear of the manor, and up the back stairs that covertly took her to the third floor and a guest bedroom, which boasted a conveniently located flue. All sorts of interesting discourse drifted up the expedient chimney. As a new bride, she'd stumbled upon it during one of her explorations, and the discovery had come in handy on numerous occasions.
Elizabeth and the earl would be in the library, his precious haven that was off limits to Charlotte. When she'd first arrived in the dreary mansion, he'd instructed her that she wasn't allowed inside, and she'd invariably complied, but he went there with Elizabeth, and the slight burned Charlotte with humiliation. The two of them disappeared into the private chamber whenever they wanted a discreet conversation—one to which Charlotte couldn't be privy, because she was the main topic.