Hurst, turning crimson, looked quickly around. A number of club patrons, and even some of the staff members, glanced up curiously at the sudden outburst the marquis’s guest had made.
“Your Grace,” Hurst said. The Duke liked to be addressed as befit his self-awarded title. “Your Grace, if you please, keep your voice down. This is a private club, and I—”
“Bollocks,” The Duke said again, but he said it a little more quietly this time. “You’ve got some nerve, Slater, sittin’ here in your bollocky club in them bollocky velvet pants, while you’ve got yourself a bollocky bride and a bollocky bitch on the side, as well. See? I know. We’ve kept an eye on you, Slater. And we aren’t happy with what we’ve seen.”
The Duke had a tendency to employ the royal we when he was unhappy. He appeared to be very unhappy right now.
“You know I shot Linford. You know I shot him and left him to die. He would have died, too, if it hadn’t been for your bollocky interference. Well, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve made this mess, so you’ve got to clean it up.”
Hurst licked his lips. A part of him was wondering how many members of his club were going to complain to the management about the number of times the word “bollocks” had been employed by his guest. Another part—a much bigger part—was concerned about just what, exactly, The Duke meant.
“Mess?” he echoed. “What mess might that be, Your Grace?”
“The Linford mess.” The Duke lifted his ballon and finished his brandy in one swift gulp. “I shot him, you bloody idiot, to keep him from bleatin’ to all his friends about The Duke being a cheat. Not much point in running a card game, is there, if no one’ll show up to it because they’ve heard it’s fixed.”
“Oh, please,” Hurst said, his heart beginning to beat with uncomfortable force beneath his shirt. “Bartlett won’t tell anyone, Your Grace. He’s learned his lesson. You put the fear of God into him. He’ll be silent as a mouse when he gets back in the fall—”
“Yes,” The Duke said. “He will be. Dead men don’t talk.”
Hurst’s heart seemed to be hurling itself against his ribs. “Oh, no,” he said. “You don’t mean . . . you can’t mean. . . .”
But The Duke very clearly did.
“But Your Grace—” It was all Hurst could do to keep from sliding off his chair and falling to his knees before the man. “I’m to marry his sister! You don’t understand. She’s got money. Lots and lots of it. I’ll pay you. I’ll be happy to pay you anything you like—”
“Of course.” The Duke looked down at him quizzically. “You’ll do that, too. And you’ll have even more money than you ever supposed, because with the earl dead, his inheritance will go to his sister. You’ll have quite the wealthy bride, Slater. Wealthier than you ever imagined. But first, of course, you’ll clean up your mess.”
“But—”
“You’ll clean it up.” The Duke rose to his feet. “Or we’ll clean up
you,
as well.”
Seeing that “Mr. Jenkins” was preparing to depart, the young man in charge of such things hurried forward with his hat and cane, which The Duke accepted with a smile and a shiny new guinea.
“Don’t be too long about it, either, Slater,” were the gentleman’s last words before departing. And each one seemed to strike at Hurst’s chest like a blow from a hammer.
How long he sat after The Duke had left, he did not know. He had suspected, of course, that something like this was going to happen. He had not thought he’d be able to break free of The Duke and his friends with anything like ease.
But he had never thought the cost would be this high.
Later, over luncheon, a good many of Hurst’s fellow club members speculated over the reason the new Marquis of Winchilsea had left his chair so suddenly after his meeting with the extraordinary Mr. Jenkins. It was generally agreed that the new marquis had overextended himself, and that Mr. Jenkins was, perhaps, a representative of one of the individuals to whom the marquis owed money.
What they did not know, of course, was that the reason the marquis quit the club so suddenly that afternoon was not so that he could go to the bank and withdraw money to pay his debts, but so that he could go to the nearest gun club, and brush up on his target practice.
“
H
e
what?”
Emily’s voice cracked.
“Shhh.” Caroline put a hand over her best friend’s lips. “Not so loud! Ma’s in her room down the hall, resting, with another one of her headaches. She’s bound to hear you.”
“But Caro,” Emily burst out, from behind the strategically placed fingers. “His
tongue?”
Caroline took her hand from her friend’s lips and said, “It isn’t as nasty as it sounds, Emmy. In fact, it was rather . . . nice.”
Emily made a face.
“Nice?
Caroline, there is nothing
nice
about—how can you even . . . but that isn’t the point. The point is that letting a man kiss you that way—well, it’s tantamount to inviting him into your bed.” Emily thumped emphatically on the mattress they sat upon, that mattress being the one belonging to Caroline’s large, canopied bed. “And if you think Braden Granville is going to let you alone now that you’ve put that idea in his head—”
“It isn’t like that,” Caroline said. “He isn’t how you think he is—how everyone says he is. Emmy, he’s really very nice—”
“Nice?” Emily rolled her eyes. “Caroline, Braden Granville isn’t
nice.
You’re a fool to think it. He isn’t like Hurst or Tommy. He’s different. He comes from a different world.”
Caroline found herself glaring at her friend. “From a little east of here. Not
China,
for God’s sake.”
“You misunderstand me,” Emily said, a little stiffly. “Purposefully, too, I think. You know I am not one to judge a man according to whether he was born in the East End or West End of London. I believe as much in the equality of the classes as I do in the equality of the sexes. But Caro, Braden Granville has such a reputation. You know he has. You can’t allow a man like that to do something as . . . intimate as stick his tongue in your mouth, and expect him to just forget about it. It wasn’t an interesting social experiment to him, like it was to you. He’s not going to just forget about it. Because when a man like Braden Granville sticks his tongue in your mouth, it’s actually a rehearsal for sticking something
else
in you—”
Caroline snatched up one of her bed pillows and flung it at her friend. “It’s
not,”
she said, blushing furiously.
“Caro, it
is.”
Emily caught the pillow. “And Braden Granville’s not the type of man to be satisfied with a mere
rehearsal.
He’s not going to let you alone until the curtain’s come down and the standing ovation’s begun. . . .”
Caroline tried to shrug off her friend’s concern, though it wasn’t easy, with her face burning so hotly. She wished she’d never told Emily about any of it. She wished it was all a secret she could hug to herself at night, like a pillow.
“Well,” Caroline said, with elaborate nonchalance. “What’s so wrong with that?”
Emily stared at her. “What’s so wrong with that? Did you just ask me
what’s so wrong about that?
Caroline, what’s so wrong about that is that you are engaged to marry Hurst Slater, the tenth Marquis of Winchilsea, in less than a month.”
She stuck out her chin. “So? If Hurst can have a lover, why can’t I have one, too?”
Emily’s jaw dropped. Seeing her stunned expression, Caroline groaned, and then, rolling over onto her stomach, let her head hang over the side of the bed. “Fine,” she said, from her new, upside down position. “You’re right. I’m not exactly the type of girl who takes a lover, am I? But the plain fact of the matter is, Emmy, I’ve tried the pants on, and they don’t fit.”
Her friend dropped down beside her.
“What?”
“I kissed Hurst last night—really kissed him—and I felt nothing.”
“You used to love it when he kissed you,” Emily said.
“Exactly. But now? Nothing.”
“Oh, God.” Emily lifted her head, her green eyes snapping fire. “This is all your own fault, you know. If you’d just told me what you were going to do when you went to see Braden Granville the first time—”
“You’d have tried to talk me out of it.”
“Of course I would have. It was a perfectly ridiculous idea.
Lessons,
Caro? In how to
make love?
Only a madwoman would have come up with such a thing.”
Caroline sat up. “What else was I supposed to do, Emmy? I honestly believed I could make Hurst love me.”
“And now?”
“Now? Now I’m telling myself that there are worse things than marrying a man you don’t love, who doesn’t love you.” Caroline sighed. “Snakes, for instance.”
“I was wrong.” Emily climbed down from the bed, and began to pace Caroline’s pretty, lace-filled bedroom. “This isn’t your fault. It’s Tommy’s. If he hadn’t been stupid enough to get shot, Hurst wouldn’t have had to save him, and you could marry anyone you wanted.”
“But I wanted to marry Hurst,” Caroline pointed out. “I was delighted at the idea of marrying Hurst. Until I found out about Jackie Seldon, and then the pants not fitting.”
Emily glowered. “It’s Braden Granville’s fault, then. You’d never have known the pants didn’t fit if he hadn’t stuck his tongue in your mouth.”
“Or,” Caroline added, thoughtfully, “put his hand down my shimmy.”
Emily cried, “He
what?”
Caroline, startled, said, “Oh, yes. I forgot to tell you about that part.”
“Caroline!” Emily looked as if she might pass out, but Caroline knew she wouldn’t. Emily, like herself, had never fainted in her life. “You didn’t. . . . He didn’t. . . . Tell me you didn’t!”
Caroline said, “Well, I was a little hard-pressed to stop him. I mean, he’s so much bigger than I am. Besides, it felt—”
“The brute!” Emily burst out. “I can’t believe the audacity of him! I’m going to tell your mother—no, I’ll tell Hurst. No, I’ll tell Tommy!”
In a flash, Caroline had her friend by the wrist. “Don’t you dare,” Caroline said, her voice almost as hard as her grip. “Tommy will try to fight him, and you know he’s not up to it yet. Besides, Braden would never accept the challenge, and you know how that would—”
“Braden?”
Emily stared at her best friend with eyes wide as saucers. “You call him
Braden
now?”
“Well,” Caroline said, a little taken aback. “I should think I’m allowed. He’s been a lot more intimate with me than Hurst has ever been, and I call him by
his
first name.”
Emily shook her head. “Oh, Caroline,” she said. “This is awful.”
A knock sounded on the door.
“Lady Caroline?” Bennington’s voice sounded strained. “A message for you, my lady.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. Another letter of regret, she supposed, to her wedding. Well, her mother would be happy. It would mean she could bring up another couple from the B list.
“Promise me,” she said, ignoring the butler, and taking her friend’s hand in both her own. “Promise me, Emily, that you won’t say anything to Tommy.”
Emily, looking sullen, said, “All right, I promise. But you’ve got to promise to end it, Caroline. Now, before it goes any further.”
The butler knocked again. “Lady Caroline?”
Caroline dropped her friend’s hand. “Oh, dash it all,” she said, impatiently. “Come in, then.”
The key scratched in the lock, and then the butler, looking as if delivering messages to young ladies who’d been locked into the bedroom by their irate mothers was something he did every day of the week, came in, holding a silver salver.
Caroline picked up the neatly folded foolscap that rested on the salver, and saw that she didn’t recognize the handwriting on it. Curious, she lifted her eyeglasses from where they rested on a bedside table, settled them onto her nose, then tore the missive open, glanced at the signature, and immediately turned a violent shade of red.
Caroline,
the note read in strong, powerful script.
It is now five o’clock. You are exactly one hour late for our appointment. Tardiness is the one thing I cannot abide. Get your spectacles and meet me outside in five minutes, or I shall force my way in and drag you out. B. Granville
Caroline looked at the butler, her mouth suddenly very dry. “Bennington,” she said. “Is there a carriage sitting outside the house?”
“Indeed, my lady,” he said. “There is. An enclosed black curricle. The footman informed me that his master is within it. His attendant is waiting for your reply.”
Her heart beating a bit too rapidly for comfort in her chest, Caroline slipped off the bed and went to her writing desk, moving like someone in a daze.
“Caro,” Emily said, in a concerned voice. “Are you all right? You look . . . strange.”
“I’m fine,” Caroline said, automatically, as she drew out a piece of stationery and a pen.
Mr. Granville,
she wrote, rapidly.
Even if I wanted to meet you, which I am certain would not be at all wise, I could not, since my mother has locked me into my room as punishment for having gone into the garden with you last night at the Dalrymples’. C. Linford