More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (35 page)

Jane was on her feet.

“Your wife?” she said, her eyes wide with astonishment. “
Your wife?
How utterly preposterous. You think you owe me marriage just because you have suddenly discovered that I am Lady Sara Illingsworth of Candleford rather than Jane Ingleby from some orphanage?”

“I could not have phrased it better myself,” he said.

“I do not know what you have planned for the rest of the afternoon, your grace,” she told him, looking into his cold, cynical face and feeling the full chill of his total indifference to her as a person, “but I have something of importance to do. I have a visit to the Pulteney Hotel to make. If you will excuse me.” She turned resolutely to the door.

“Sit down,” he said as quietly as before.

She swung to face him. “I am not one of your servants, your grace,” she said. “I am not—”

“Sit
down
!” His voice, if anything, was even quieter.

Jane stood staring at him for a few moments before striding across the room until she stood almost toe-to-toe with him.

“I repeat,” she said, “I am not one of your servants. If you have something more to say to me, say it without this ridiculous posturing. My ears function quite well enough when I am on my feet.”

“You try my patience to the limit, ma'am,” he said, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“And mine is already tried
beyond
the limit, your grace,” she retorted, turning toward the door again.

“Lady Sara.” His icy voice stopped her in her tracks. “We will have one thing straight between us. Soon—within the next few days—you will be the Duchess of Tresham. Your personal wishes on this matter are not to be consulted. I am quite indifferent to them. You will be my wife. And you will spend the rest of your life ruing the day you were born.”

If she had not been so white with fury, she might well have laughed. As it was she took her time about seating herself in the nearest chair, arranging her skirts neatly about her before looking up into his eyes, her own carefully cool.

“How utterly ridiculous you make yourself when you decide to play the part of toplofty aristocrat,” she told him, folding her hands in her lap and pressing her lips tightly together. She girded herself for the inevitable battle.

E
WAS SURPRISED BY THE FORCE OF HIS HATRED
for her. He had never hated anyone—except perhaps his father. Not even his mother. It was unnecessary to hate when one did not feel strongly about anyone. He wished he could feel nothing but indifference for Lady Sara Illingsworth.

He could almost succeed when he thought of her by that name. But his eyes saw Jane Ingleby.

“You will not be forced to behold your ridiculous husband very often, you will be relieved to know,” he told her. “You will live at Acton, and you know how fond I am of my main country seat. You will see me only once a year or so when it becomes necessary to breed you. If you are very efficient you will have two sons within the first two years of our marriage and I may consider them enough to secure the succession. If you are extraordinarily clever, of course, you may already be increasing.” He lifted his quizzing glass and regarded her abdomen through it.

Her lips had already done their familiar disappearing act. He was glad she had pulled herself together. For a while she had looked pale and shaken and abject. He had found himself almost pitying her. She was glaring at him with her very blue eyes.

“You are forgetting one thing, your grace,” she said. “Women are not quite slaves in our society, though they
come dangerously close. I have to say ‘I do' or ‘I will' or whatever it is brides say to consent to a marriage. You may drag me to the altar—I will concede your superior physical strength—but you will be considerably embarrassed when I refuse my consent.”

He knew he should be delighted by her obvious reluctance. But she had duped him, humiliated him, made a fool of him once. Her will would not prove stronger than his on this particular matter.

“Besides,” she added, “I am not yet of age. And according to my father's will I cannot marry below the age of five and twenty without the consent of my guardian. If I do, I lose my inheritance.”

“Inheritance?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Everything my father owned except Candleford itself was unentailed,” she explained, “and his title, of course. His other estates, his fortune—everything, in fact—will be mine at the age of five and twenty, or my husband's if I marry with consent before then.”

Which explained a great deal, of course. Durbury had the title and Candleford and control of everything else at the moment. He would have permanent control if he could persuade Lady Sara to marry into his family—or if he could make her life so uncomfortable that she would rashly elope with someone else before her twenty-fifth birthday.

“I suppose,” he said, “if you break the rules Durbury himself inherits everything?”

“Yes.”

“He may inherit everything, then,” he said curtly. “I am enormously wealthy. I do not need my wife to bring me a fortune.”

“I suppose,” she said, “if I am convicted of murder I
will be disinherited. Perhaps I will even d-die. But I will fight to whatever end is in store for me. And I will marry no one, whatever the outcome. Not Charles. Not you. At least not until I am five and twenty. Then I will marry or not marry as I choose. I will be free. I will be dead or imprisoned or transported, or I will be free. Those are the alternatives. I will be no man's slave in the guise of wife. Certainly not yours.”

He gazed at her in silence. She did not look away, of course. She was one of the few people, man or woman, who could hold his scrutiny. She held her chin high. Her eyes were steely, her lips still in their thin, stubborn line.

“I should have seen it sooner,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “The essentially cold emptiness at the core of you. You are sexually passionate, but then sex is an essentially carnal thing. It does not touch the heart. You have the strange ability of opening yourself to other people's confidences. You convey an image of sympathy and empathy. You can take in and take in, can you not, like some cold-hearted creature warming itself with its victim's blood. One does not notice that in effect you give nothing back. Jane Ingleby, bastard of some unknown gentleman, reared in a superior orphanage. That was all you gave me—lies. And your Siren's body. I am weary of arguing with you. I have other calls to make, but I will return. You will stay here until I do.”

“I have hurt you,” she said, getting to her feet. “You will be pleased to know that you have had your revenge. If my heart was not cold before, it is now. I have given and given of my very self because your need has been so great. I was not given a chance to reach out for myself, for the comfort of your understanding and sympathy and friendship. There was not enough time—just one
week and it ended so abruptly yesterday. Go. I am weary too. I want to be alone. You feel betrayed, your grace? Well, I do too.”

He did not stop her this time when she turned to leave the room. He watched her go. He stood where he was for a long time.

His heart ached.

The heart he had not known he possessed.

He could not trust her. He would not trust her. Not again.

Had
he betrayed her?
Had
it been sympathy and friendship and love she had given after all?
Had
she intended sharing herself with him as he had shared himself with her?

Jane.

Lady Sara Illingsworth.

Ah, Jane
.

He strode from the room and from the house. It was only when he was some distance away that he remembered ordering her to remain until he returned. But she was not one to take orders meekly. He should have made her promise. Devil take it, he should have thought of that.

But surely she would not leave the house now. Surely she would wait.

He did not go back.

I
F
L
ADY
W
EBB WAS
surprised when her butler handed her a card on a tray and informed her even before she could look at it that the Duke of Tresham was standing in her hall below requesting the honor of a few minutes of her time, she did not show it by the time Jocelyn was
announced. She rose from a small escritoire, where she was apparently engaged in writing letters.

“Tresham?” she said graciously.

“Ma'am.” He made her a deep bow. “I thank you for granting me some of your time.”

Lady Webb was an elegant widow of about forty with whom he was acquainted, though not well. She moved in a more civilized set than any with which he usually consorted. He held her in considerable respect.

“Do have a seat,” she offered, indicating a chair while she seated herself on a sofa close by, “and tell me what brings you here.”

“I believe,” he said, taking the offered chair, “you have an acquaintance with Lady Sara Illingsworth, ma'am.”

She raised her eyebrows and regarded him more keenly. “She is my goddaughter,” she said. “Do you have any news of her?”

“She was employed at Dudley House as my nurse for three weeks,” he said, “after I had been shot in the leg in a, ah, duel. She came upon me in Hyde Park while it was happening. She was on her way to work at a milliner's at the time. She was using an alias, of course.”

Lady Webb was sitting very still. “Is she still at Dudley House?” she asked.

“No, ma'am.” Jocelyn sat back in his chair. He was experiencing extreme discomfort, a feeling relatively unknown to him. “I did not know her real identity until a Bow Street Runner came to speak with me yesterday. I knew her as Miss Jane Ingleby.”

“Ah, Jane,” Lady Webb said. “It is the name by which her parents called her. Her middle name.”

Foolishly it felt good to hear that. She really
was
Jane, as she had told him earlier.

“She was a servant, you must understand,” he said. “She had temporary employment with me.”

Lady Webb shook her head and sighed aloud. “And you do not know where she went,” she said. “Neither do I. Is that why you have come here? Because you are outraged to know that you were duped into giving sanctuary to a fugitive? If I knew where she was, Tresham, I would not tell you. Or the Earl of Durbury.” She spoke the name with disdain.

“You do not believe, then,” he asked, “that she is guilty of any of the charges against her?”

Her nostrils flared, the only sign of emotion. She sat straight but gracefully on her seat, her back not touching it. Her posture was rather reminiscent of Jane's—a lady's posture.

“Sara is no murderer,” she said firmly, “and no thief either. I would stake my fortune and my reputation on it. The Earl of Durbury wanted her to marry his son, whom she held in the utmost contempt, sensible girl. I have my own theory on how Sidney Jardine met his end. If you are lending your support to Durbury by coming here in the hope that you will learn more from me than he did a few days ago, then you are wasting your time and mine. I would ask you to leave.”

“Do you believe he is dead?” Jocelyn asked with narrowed eyes.

She stared at him. “Jardine?” she said. “Why would his father say he was dead if he were not?”

“
Has
he said it?” Jocelyn asked. “Or has he merely not contradicted the rumor that has been making the circuit of London drawing rooms and clubs?”

She was looking steadily at him. “Why are you here?” she asked.

All day he had wondered what exactly he would say. He had come to no satisfactory conclusion. “I know where she is,” he said. “I found her other employment when she left Dudley House.”

Lady Webb was on her feet instantly. “In town?” she asked. “Take me to her. I will bring her here and give her sanctuary while I have my solicitor look into the ridiculous charges against her. If your suspicions are correct and Sidney Jardine is still alive … Well. Where is she?”

Jocelyn had risen too. “She is in town, ma'am,” he assured her. “I will bring her to you. I would have brought her now, but I had to be sure that she would find a safe haven here.”

Her gaze became shrewd suddenly.

“Tresham,” she asked, as he had feared she would, “what other employment did you find Sara?”

“You must understand, ma'am,” he said stiffly, “that she gave me a false name. She told me she had been brought up in an orphanage. It was clear that she had had a genteel upbringing, but I thought her destitute and friendless.”

She closed her eyes briefly, but she did not relax her very erect posture. “Bring her to me,” she said. “You will have a maid or some respectable female companion with her when she arrives.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he agreed. “I do, of course, consider myself affianced to Lady Sara Illingsworth.”

“Of course.” There was a certain coldness in the eyes that regarded him so keenly. “It just seems a rather sad irony that she has escaped from one blackguard merely to land in the clutches of another. Bring her to me.”