Love Lessons at Midnight (8 page)

“Well, he’s gone off to the Continent now and I say good riddance. Wild-eyed revolutionary. France deserves the likes of that one,” Middleton pronounced.

“He’s deep in dun territory, I know that to be true,” Penelope Chaldyce whispered as she sipped a tiny bit of the beef consume.

“Probably drank up all his earnings from the scribbling he does,” her husband added snidely.

“Oh, dear, I confess that I do enjoy some of Lord Byron’s verse,” Verity said. “It is really quite romantic.”

Before Rob could inquire what poem had caught her fancy, the young baronet said, “Byron has more probably given his money to dangerous men such as that Wilberforce chap.”

“I do not see how Mr. Wilberforce’s battle to abolish slavery can be construed as dangerous,” Rob said as the soup course was removed and fillets of trout were served.

The baronet leaned forward, waving his fork. “Do you realize that the whole economy of our Caribbean colonies is based on it? And the raw materials from America for our mills—who would pick that cotton, eh? Abolition would destroy our national wealth, Lord Barrington. How can you not see it?”

“Well, I certainly cannot see why those poor white wretches lying idle in our crime-ridden tenements should not pick the cotton. We could send them to our colonies—and to America,” Lady Chaldyce said brightly, smiling at her own cleverness.

“We have no way to force free men to labor in sugarcane or cotton fields, my lady, or, if innocent of a crime, to deport them to another country,” Rob explained gently, as several of the other gentlemen chuckled condescendingly.

“A pity the earl is correct,” Middleton said. “Wish Wellington had thought to ship those Froggies to the sugar plantations after Waterloo, eh, what?”

“A splendid idea,” Chaldyce said.

Verity clapped her hands. “Now, gentleman, please, let us forgo further political discourse. It quite disturbs the digestion, and I have labored long over the menu for this dinner. We are having a splendid rack of spring lamb and a trifle with fresh fruit before the savory completes the meal.”

“You are very wise, m’lady. Politics can indeed give one indigestion. I know from experience,” Rob replied, raising his glass in a toast. “To our charming hostess, and her return to society.”

“Hear, hear,” echoed around the table as he exchanged smiles with the baroness.

Rob could see that Chaldyce and the baronet remained spoiling for further verbal jousting. He would be happy to oblige when the ladies retired, leaving the gentlemen alone with their port. Lady Chaldyce was an addlepate. Rob hoped that Lady Oberly did not share her uninformed opinions. Of course, he had no idea precisely what the baroness’s opinions were. She appeared, like many women of his class, to have no interest in political matters, only hearth and home. The meal had been superb, her household ran smoothly, and she was a good mother.

What else did he require in a wife? Thoughts of Fantasia’s razor wit and keen interest in Parliament vied with Gaby’s sweet passion and acceptance of his sordid past. He shook himself mentally for thinking of them. They were who they were, and as such, could never share any part of his future. He must focus on the woman he hoped to make his countess.

Just before the ladies excused themselves from the table, a servant approached the hostess with a whispered message. She smiled brightly and said, “Please have Phoebe bring him at once.” Turning to her guests, she said, “I would like to bid
my son good night here at table so that you may meet him—if that is acceptable to everyone?” Her eyes met Rob’s, looking for approval.

“That would be delightful,” he replied. The others chorused agreement with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

In a moment the sleepy boy was brought into the dining room, his heavy-lidded eyes blinking beneath the bright glow from the chandelier. “Here’s Mommy’s good boy.” She planted a kiss on his curly head, then said, “This is my son, Elgin.”

“I doubt you remember me but we met amidst a great crash of tea tins,” Rob said to the toddler, who should have been asleep hours ago instead of dressed in a satin suit, all turned out for inspection. But Lady Verity was a proud mother, he assured himself.

“Elgin, do you remember the Earl of Barrington?” Lady Verity asked as the maid rocked the boy, who shyly hid his face.

“A bit of foolishness, this. Send the child off to bed, Verity,” his grandfather said gruffly.

“As you wish, Papa,” she replied, reaching up to pat her son’s head.

Finally awakened by the sound of the old man’s voice, Elgin twisted in Phoebe’s arms and launched himself at his mother. Verity tried to avoid the chubby little hands, but he seized hold of a white lace ruffle on her gown with a squeal of delight. A bit of drool escaped his mouth, dripping onto her lush bosom as she pried his hand free.

“Phoebe, I’ve told you repeatedly to hold him securely so this could not happen. Now see what you have done,” Verity scolded, looking at the damp spot and crumpled bit of lace. She dabbed at the spot with a napkin and smoothed the sleeve, dismissing the red-faced nurse. “Please put Elgin to bed immediately.”

When Phoebe turned to go, the little boy, already tired and out of sorts, saw the pink and white confection disappearing
from his reach. Frustrated, he emitted a muted cry. As the nurse left the room, she crooned to him and his distress quickly abated.

His mother’s cheeks matched her gown as she straightened and attempted to smile bravely. “I do apologize for that debacle,” she said, looking over at Rob. “It would appear every time you see my son, he is in the suds. I hope you understand,” she added hesitantly.

“What child would not reach out for his mother, especially one as loving as you, m’lady?” Rob asked. “It is late and the lad is tired. There’s no harm,” he assured her.

Around the table everyone chorused agreement, although Middleton muttered darkly about mollycoddling the next Baron Oberly. Rob noticed Lady Oberly’s hand still nervously smoothing her gown as the conversation resumed.

Amber sat at the bow window in her private quarters reading the
Morning Chronicle
while she sipped hot black coffee. She noted a brief piece buried at the bottom of the second page. A thief from Whitechapel named Jemmy Starling had been found shot through the chest outside Hampstead. The report speculated about why a flash house denizen would venture into the countryside but drew no conclusions. She placed the paper on her lap and stared at the shrubbery outside being drenched in a heavy spring rain. The weather suited her mood.

Just as Barrington had surmised, Boxer had been unable to catch up with the man she had wounded. Her bodyguard was profusely apologetic and dispirited for what he perceived as a grave failure to protect her, no matter that she had assured him he was not at fault. When they arrived home, she had gone to Grace and told her about the attack. The older woman had immediately summoned Clyde Dyer, asking him to look into the incident. The runner quickly learned the thief’s identity. Now he was searching for Starling’s companions.
Perhaps one of them might, for some coins, give over the name of Jem’s murderer.

A light tap sounded on her door, but before she could inquire who it was or bid them enter, the door swung open and Jenette burst into the room. Her lovely face was flushed with anger. “You almost die—or worse—and you do not send for Jenette!” she accused, glaring down at Amber. “Grace, she tells me two men attacked you.”

“You had gone to the opera with Lorna and her patron and did not return until quite late. Was I to spoil your sleep with my news? ′Tis all right, Jeni. The earl knocked one fellow from his horse and I shot the second ruffian. You would have been proud of me, my friend.”

Jenette made a dismissive sound. “I merely instructed you how to fire at a target. Shooting at a man who shoots in return, that is brave and takes great courage,
ma coeur.
And your earl, he is brave as well as beautiful, that one. He speaks for the poor with great eloquence. Bold yet kind, which makes him twice the danger to your heart.”

Amber’s eyes flashed. She had not told Jenette about her masquerade as Gabrielle. “How did you know that I was…” She could not ask the question.

“That you have taken him to your bed?” The Frenchwoman finished her trailing question.

“Grace!” Amber accused.

“
Non
, she did not whisper a word. The years I spent spying against the Corsican taught me how to use my eyes…and ears. I am
sans honte
, without shame, when I must protect those I love.” She shrugged unrepentantly. “You did not think to fool me…not after we went to hear your earl give his fiery speech, eh? I saw how you watched him.”

“I wish you would cease calling Barrington
my
earl. Just because I have taken him as a patron does not mean—”

“Oh, after avoiding men all these years, now on the sudden, you choose this one to make love with and he is only a
patron.
Non.
You listen to his speeches, give him carriage rides, and go on country outings with him. You—”

Now it was Amber’s turn to interrupt. “How did you know that I gave him a ride in the rain? Boxer would never have said anything.”

Jenette smirked. “Why should he not? I only ask him if you returned home without incident after leaving me at the modiste. He volunteers the rest.”

“I should know I can keep nothing from you, my friend.”

“Do not be angry with the sergeant major. Already he blames himself for yesterday, but we all knew one day the beast, he would find you.”

“You speak just as Grace did. They could have been robbers.”

“Robbers! And what would men from Whitechapel do on a lonely country road? Rob the sheep?”

“Perhaps they were sent to silence Barrington. Eastham may not be involved.” She knew her voice lacked conviction.

“Grace says that Monsieur Dyer investigates. He will follow the stench of Eastham, not of sheep, mark me.”

T
hroughout the day, Amber fretted about the earl, who was scheduled to arrive for his next “lesson” that night. How could she pretend to be Gabrielle after the harrowing events of yesterday? Revealing her face to him had been an incredibly foolish blunder. He had not realized the truth, but if she continued spending time with him as Fantasia, it would be only a matter of time until he did.

“I have no excuse that I dare use to put him off. He would only come storming in again, demanding to see Gabrielle,” she murmured to herself. She was confused because there was a part of her that was eager, nay, hungry, to spend another night lost in passion. Was she becoming as hopelessly addicted to his body—and indeed to his mind—as an opium eater to the drug? All too soon, their liaison would end. He would court his vapid baroness after returning to the world to which he was born…

The world to which you were born, too.
That reminded her of the marquess. She swallowed bile. No, that evil brute had no place here. She would seize all the joy she could with Robert Emery Crispin St. John, Earl of Barrington…Rob.

Her
earl…if only for a brief interlude.

Rob paced like a caged tiger across his study, watching the rain drench peonies and sweet woodruff. His gardener would be displeased by the broken branches and debris flung from the trees that marred the perfection of his handiwork. The earl had always enjoyed a good, cleansing storm, upon occasion even venturing out to ride during a downpour. He smiled
ironically, recalling how he had eagerly accepted Fantasia’s offer of shelter in her coach, when he certainly did not require it.

But he had wanted to talk with her. The woman had been a fascinating enigma from their first awkward interview. If Gaby was sweetness and fire during their “lessons,” then Fantasia was arrogance and ice during their “debates.” But as he began to spend time with her, he sensed a wary vulnerability beneath the clever wit and erudition. She was one of those “unnatural political females” men such as Byron detested. There had certainly been a time before he became engaged in the reform movement when he would have agreed.

Certainly Lady Oberly would not approve of “political females.” But she was the perfect woman for a man in his position, he reminded himself. Did it matter if bills pending in Parliament held no interest for her? Her first commitment was to home and family. She would be a fine wife and mother, just as his own mother had been. Then the scene with young Elgin last evening intruded. The baroness had tried to conceal her distress when her only child did what he and his sisters had always done—reach out for their mother, who always picked them up. Abigail St. John did not care if they damaged her dress. Of course, his mother never had the money to afford nursemaids, being the wife of a priest in a modest country parish. But then, she did not have many dresses, either.

The invidious comparison bothered him. Should he court Lady Oberly? He wanted a loving wife and mother for his children, but he also wanted a companion who shared his interest in bettering the world. Fantasia was not only witty but well read, as radical a reformer as he had ever thought to be.
You could marry her no sooner than you could wed Gaby, fool!
As if either one would consider such a misalliance.

He stared through the rain-spattered window glass just as the sun broke through the clouds, unable to forget Fantasia’s
face, with its wide golden eyes and delicately arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, and lush mouth. “Damnation, admit it, you want to taste that mouth, not hear it speak,” he muttered to himself. Saying the words aloud made him feel even more disloyal to Gabrielle than he already felt.

Fantasia was an infamous courtesan cloaked in mystery. At first he had convinced himself that he simply enjoyed verbal sparring with her, nothing more. After they survived death together, she had revealed her incredibly lovely face. At that moment he knew he had been deceiving himself. He desired her. When he made the decision to have a courtesan teach him how to become a good lover, he had never imagined that he would fall under the spell of not only his teacher, but her mentor!

The tall case clock struck the hour. The sun was sinking through the branches of the oaks outside. He had an appointment with Gabrielle at midnight. Did he wish to make love to her…or to Fantasia? Would the madam want him in her bed? Although he possessed great self-confidence in the political arena, Rob was not a vain man. She enjoyed conversing with him and had gone out of her way to find occasions for them to meet. They had much in common, unlikely as that would have seemed to him before he became acquainted with her. But that did not mean she returned his ardor.

To find out, he must pay her an early visit before he met Gaby in the darkness again…if he met her. She had already taught him more than enough to satisfy a lady. Yet the thought of saying good-bye to Gaby pained his heart. Was he going mad? He was torn between two women of the demimonde and disillusioned with the very lady for whom he had sought their help in the first place!

By the time Rob reached the House of Dreams, dusk was gently blanketing Alpha Road in a cool, spring haze. After
Frog drove around to the rear entrance, the earl climbed down from the carriage and started walking toward the door. Some activity was going on in the surrounding woods. He could see the flicker of torchlights and hear voices, even the clang of swords, for heaven’s sake. Some rich man playing out his fantasy?

A scant few weeks ago he would have condemned such activity as immoral, or at least, foolish. Now he simply shrugged. Gaby’s relaxed French attitude had mellowed him.
Forget Gaby. What are you going to say to Fantasia?

When he was admitted, the footman nodded discreetly at his request to speak with her. Shortly a carrot-topped serving girl led him upstairs into the sitting room. “The mistress will be along shortly, sir,” she said, bobbing a shy curtsy and scurrying away before he could thank her.

Rob looked around at the pale cream walls and rich green carpet, touched the smooth simplicity of the walnut furniture. No drawing room in London was more elegant or tasteful. Like the lady herself. He compared this room to the pink clutter of Verity’s home, then dismissed the thought as inappropriate.

Think about what you will say to explain your untimely arrival.
Vexed because nothing came to mind, he suddenly seized upon his early morning conversation with Cobbett. At least that would provide an opening. Then what?

Bonnie knew that her mistress had never before taken a patron to her bed. She approached Lady Fantasia in the library, not certain that she had done the proper thing by admitting him to her private quarters. But she dared not turn him away. “That fine-lookin’ gentleman’s here, askin’ to see you, m’lady.” Her face flamed as red as her hair. “I put him in yer sittin’ room,” she said. “Is—is that all right?”

Amber almost overturned the inkwell, which would have spilled all over her bookkeeping ledger. Carefully righting the inkwell, she laid aside her pen after dropping a blob of
ink over the neat columns of figures. “Oh, of course, Bonnie. Did he say why he’s here?”

When Bonnie shook her head, Amber dismissed the maid, instructing her, “Please see if Jenette requires any help.”

She toyed with the idea of concealing her face from him, but dismissed it. He would surmise that she was afraid of him and she could not allow him that advantage. Besides, he had seen her face in bright daylight and given no hint that he knew she was Gabrielle. She smoothed her gown, then walked down the hallway. As she reached the door to her sitting room, she paused with her hand on the cool brass knob.

Turn it, you lackwit!
With as regal an air as she could muster, she plastered a smile on her face and opened the door silently. She had caught him unaware, studying the Turner landscape on the far wall. He was so splendidly handsome her heart stuttered in her breast. His black kerseymere breeches and cutaway jacket were expertly tailored to fit his tall, lean frame. The snowy cravat at his throat contrasted with his swarthy complexion. Night-dark hair waved around his face, in disarray, as if he had been combing his fingers through it.

When she glided into the room, he turned and fixed her with those dark green eyes. Sparks seemed to shoot between them as she met his gaze. With a hitch in her breathing, she said, “Good evening, m’lord.”

Rob had been startled by her cultivated, musical voice interrupting his reverie. Staring at her body swathed in sheer gold silk proved his undoing. The fabric clung to her hips and molded around her breasts. Its low neckline revealed wickedly soft cleavage where a lone topaz pendant nestled. “I see you have forsaken hiding your face from me,” he commented boldly as he advanced a step toward her.

Amber stood rooted to the floor, her gold eyes answering the heat in his green ones. What would she do if he kissed her? He would know.
I must break this spell!
She decided
upon a direct attack, asking, “Why are you here so long before your lesson with Gaby?” He stopped, his complexion darkening just as it had done at his first halting attempt to explain why he had come to the House of Dreams.

Rob cursed silently. What had he almost done! “I, er, I wanted to inform you that Mr. Cobbett has taken your warning to heart. He and his eldest son sail with tomorrow’s tide,” he blurted out.

She tilted her head. “Excellent. Sidmouth will not—”

Before she could complete the sentence, Bonnie burst through the partially closed door, wringing her hands, a look of wild alarm on her freckled face. “M’lady, come quick! Robin Hood has sliced open the Sheriff of Nottingham’s bum! There be blood everywhere!”

What else could go awry this night? No, she dared not tempt the Fates by asking that. “Tell Jenette that I will be there immediately,” she instructed the maid, who ran from the room, so upset by the sight of blood that she forgot to curtsy. From the corner of her eye, Amber saw Rob take a step toward the door. “Please remain here, m’lord. Have a glass of brandy—or an entire bottle for all I care—but do not leave this room.”

Before he could respond, she seized a shawl hanging on a wall peg and rushed out the door. Rob decided he was not thirsty…but he was curious. Something must have gone dangerously wrong at the revels in the backyard. “Robin has cut up the Sheriff of Nottingham, eh?” he murmured to himself with a chuckle. His amusement was cut short when she ducked her head through the partially closed door. She had draped the wrap over her hair and face for concealment.

She quickly commanded, “What I said was not a suggestion, but an order, sir.”

Rob stepped closer to the door. “But I have battlefield experience. I may—”

“Sit!” With that she vanished down the hall.

“I am not a dog,” he muttered, slipping out the door. Even in the army, he’d never been good at following orders. He was careful to stay well behind her lest she catch him being insubordinate. The wooded area behind the house was lit by a series of torches, positioned among the budding oaks and hawthorns. Rob made his way down the twisting path in the gathering twilight. As he neared the scene, he ducked behind a large yew hedge to watch. The “players” were all dressed in medieval costumes, some as lords and ladies, most in forest green.

A man writhed on the ground, groaning and crying out, “’E’s sliced off ’alf me arse! I be bleedin’ to death!” A short, plump man in green tights that ill flattered his spindly legs brandished a sword over his prostrate victim. “You degraded poltroon, most fortunate are you that I administer so light a chastisement to one who dared lay hands on the fairest blossom of Sherwood Forest,” he declaimed grandly, as he gathered a stunned young woman to his side with his free arm. Pointing the blade at the downed sheriff, he asked her, “Art thou unharmed, dearest Maid Marian?”

Rob stifled a guffaw. Although he did not recognize the Sheriff of Nottingham or Maid Marian, he knew the wouldbe Robin Hood, a wealthy merchant who held a seat in Commons. It would be best if the merchant never learned he had a fellow member of Parliament witness his fantasy.

Apparently Fantasia felt the same, for she and Bonnie knelt quietly at the side of the injured sheriff, attempting to ascertain the damage without interrupting the action.

As a distraction, a tall slender figure wearing a scarlet jerkin and tights cried out in a throaty French accent, “My lord Robin of the Hood, we must depart hence before the sheriff’s villains descend upon us.” Startled by the intrusion, Lord Robin whirled around, sword raised, while he still clutched the woman at his opposite side, he accidentally sheared off the top of a ridiculous feather on his compatriot’s
cap. Had not “Will Scarlett” ducked quickly, he would have been beheaded by Robin’s clumsy victory flourish.

The red-clad figure danced back as Maid Marian seized her hero’s arm, directing his weapon downward. “Oh, my darling Robin, you have saved me from a dreadful fate and suffered many a bruise to do so. Come with me and I will kiss each of those precious aches away.”

The adoring female caught Robin’s attention immediately. Will Scarlett nodded encouragement to her as she kept one eye on Robin’s sword, the other on Fantasia and Bonnie as they attempted to deal with the thrashing victim.

“Yea, away we go!” the peerless leader said, now ignoring his adversary on the ground as he was herded farther into the trees by Marian. Rob could hear her cooing, “Yes, my love, I will worship every bruise you have received on my behalf…I will kiss them ever so slooowly.” She drew out the last word in a breathless whisper that carried on the night air.

“Ooh, please kiss my bruises—every one—ever so slooowly. Oh, my, that would be the cow’s thumb!” Robin replied excitedly. Will Scarlett followed them into the darkness after relieving Robin of the wayward blade. The legendary hero handed it over without protest, too absorbed in having his bruises thus tended.

Rob doubled up trying to stifle his laughter.
This is more entertaining than an evening at Covent Garden!

“Ralph, do lie still so we may see how badly you’re hurt,” Fantasia said to the fallen sheriff, who continued to thrash.