Christabel’s throat grew raw at the very thought of Byrne cutting her off with such cursory disregard.
“It’s true,” Mrs. Talbot said woefully. “Never say those words to him if you want to remain his mistress.”
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Christabel’s gaze shot to Lady Kingsley, who’d grown quite pale. Blast the woman. It washer fault that Byrne had become like this. How dared she trample on his heart for something as silly as status? She’d taught him not to care, not to let a woman close, not even to countenance talk of love and marriage. Christabel sighed. That wasn’t fair. Shehad hurt him, but other things had shaped Byrne, too: his hard childhood, the prince’s betrayal of his mother—
“Do any of you know about the fire that killed Byrne’s mother?” It suddenly occurred to her that these women might actually know. “How did it happen?”
“Some untended coal fire, I imagine,” Mrs. Talbot said. “I’m friendly with the owner of the theater where Byrne’s mother once worked, and he said it was one of those things—the lodging house was very mean, apparently, and fires like that happen often in the poorer part of town.”
“But why wasn’t Byrne in it, too?” she prodded.
“He was. It was late at night, and he was already asleep in the building when she returned from some jaunt to find it ablaze. She fought her way in and got him out, but her burns were too much for her, and she expired in hospital.”
“You mean, Mrs. Byrne was burned?” Lady Jenner remarked with a cruel laugh. “That sounds like some child’s ditty.”
As Christabel’s stomach began to roil, Lady Hungate said, “Eleanor, really! Have some respect for the dead.”
“Don’t be such a prig,” Lady Jenner snapped. “You must admit it’s an amusing coincidence. The Burning of Mrs. Byrne—why, it could easily be the title of some farce—”
“Excuse me,” Christabel murmured as she jerked to her feet. She’d had enough of Lady Jenner’s disgusting jokes and unfeeling manner. She had to escape the witch before she scratched her eyes out.
“Where are you going?” Lady Jenner demanded. “Planning to join the men at shooting? I understand you’re quite the good shot. But then, shooting at people is easier than shooting at birds, isn’t it? People provide bigger targets.”
Christabel froze. So Lord Stokely had told everyone about that, had he? Beast. She faced Lady Jenner with a brittle smile. “Whenever you wish, Lady Jenner, I’ll happily demonstrate my prowess withboth sorts of target.”
Mrs. Talbot tittered behind her hand, and Lady Hungate laughed outright. But the countess’s eyes narrowed as she rose. “Now is as good a time as any. Not for shooting at people, of course, but birds will do. And I’ve been known to fire a weapon a time or two myself. Why don’t we all go?” She tossed down her book. “There’s nothing very entertaining to do here, anyway.”
“The men won’t like it,” Mrs. Talbot interjected.
“Nonsense,” Lady Hungate said, with a surreptitious wink at Christabel. “Except for Lord Jenner, our fellows aren’t the sporting sort. Mostly they wager on who will hit which partridge when, and how many bushes Mr. Talbot will fell with his flintlock. Might as well liven the afternoon for them, I say. Why not?”
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Why not, indeed? Once the ladies were out there, the shooting party was sure to degenerate into another sort of outdoor entertainment, especially on this fine, dry autumn afternoon when an erotic interlude in a meadow would appeal to the decadent tastes of this crowd. Then she and Byrne could sneak off from the rest and come back to the house to search Lord Stokely’s room.
“Just to make it interesting,” Lady Jenner said, “I’ll wager a hundred pounds against that silver fan Byrne gave you that you can’t fell three birds before I do.”
Christabel clutched her fan. “What makes you think Byrne gave this to me?”
“It’s the sort of gift he gives—flashy and vulgar and entirely frivolous.”
Little did the woman know. “If you find it so flashy and vulgar,” Christabel countered, “why would you wish to gain it in a wager?”
“It obviously has some value, or you wouldn’t carry it everywhere.”
And Lady Jenner was exactly the sort to want to win a fan from a rival just for spite. Did she really want to risk her only weapon in a silly wager? Absolutely. It was high time the woman was taken down a peg. Besides, she could use the money—and it would make her feel less indebted to Byrne.
“Fine,” Christabel retorted with a lift of her chin. “I accept your wager.”
surprise appearance.
—Anonymous,Memoirs of a Mistress
Out in Stokely’s park, Gavin stood propped against a tree, vainly attempting to doze while his idiot companions placed bets on which partridge would alight first on an oak farther along the path. He was half-tempted to grab a rifle and scatter the whole damned flock just to end the silly wagering. What fueled this English obsession with frivolous bets? He preferred something more challenging for his wagers, like cards. Something that actually required forethought and skill. He sighed. It used to amuse him that members of his club would wager on who would come in wearing a red waistcoat or which dog in a pack would be the first to piss on the nearest parked carriage. Lately, however, it had begun to irritate him. He’d spent years clawing his way up to where he was comfortable with this “esteemed” society, and for what? So he could stand around while they wagered on the flight habits of partridges? He’d rather be at his club settling accounts…or at his estate talking to the steward about what winter crop to plant in the east fields.
And that scared him. Perhaps his half brothers were right—perhaps hewas headed into his dotage. Why else had he begun to find Stokely’s games so tiresome? Why else had he so viciously divested Markham of his rig last night, simply because the man had earlier referred to Christabel’s diddies?
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It wasn’t old age setting in—it washer, his impudent new mistress. Clearly the woman addled his brain. He craved her constantly, thought of her even when she wasn’t near. Having her in his bed should have sated his need or at least lowered it to normal levels. Instead it had honed it to a sharp, persistent ache. Damn the woman.
As if his thoughts had drawn her, he glanced over to see the women heading up the hill toward them with some mission in mind, Christabel at the fore. Look at her—the bloody chit stalked into battle like a Joan of Arc, only with lusher curves and prettier hair.
His blood quickened. He could easily get used to wrapping himself in that wealth of raven locks every night, to falling asleep with his hand on her hip, to waking with her snuggled close in his arms and making love to her while—
Damn, he’d grown aroused by the mere sight of her coming up a hill. What was next, maudlin spoutings of romantic verse and useless sentiment?
“Have a care, gentlemen,” he said to his companions, who hadn’t noticed what was going on behind them. “The hen brigade is approaching.”
“What?” Stokely turned and spotted the women coming, then laughed. “Notice anything interesting about this particular group of women, Byrne?”
With a snort, Gavin pushed away from the tree. Stokely and his bloody sense of humor—one of these days, someone would pin his ears back for his idiocy. “You mean, other than the fact that they look rather determined? If I were you, Stokely, I’d be worried. Whenever women get together and start talking, it usually means trouble for the host.”
“Ah, but that’syour mistress heading up the pack,” Stokely said dryly. “If anyone’s in trouble, it’s probably you.”
Gavin scowled. Stokely might be right. It couldn’t be good that every woman in the group had once been connected to him. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he called down the hill. “Missed us, did you?”
Lady Hungate laughed. “Hardly, you rascal. We’ve come to join the shooting. Lady Jenner has challenged Lady Haversham to a match. They’ve even laid a wager on it.”
The other men erupted into laughter, probably because they thought the woman was joking. Gavin knew better. Eleanor’s husband might be a fool and entirely incapable of pleasing his wife in bed, but he was a true sportsman, and early in their marriage, he’d foolishly taught his wife how to shoot. Gavin knew for a fact that Eleanor had taken to it like a cat to cream. And Christabel—
“What are the terms of the wager?” Gavin asked, as the women reached the top of the hill and milled around Eleanor and Christabel.
Christabel met his gaze coolly. “A hundred pounds against my fan that she can fell three birds before I can.”
That was all it took to have the other gentlemen placing their own side bets and the servants scrambling down the hill to fetch more rifles. Gavin shot Christabel a questioning glance, but nothing in her expression indicated the reason for this sudden wager. He’d thought she was searching the mansion all this time. Not that he’d expected her to find the letters, but he’d hoped that searching would keep her out
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of trouble while he went shooting with the gentlemen.
Yet here she was, surrounded by a bevy of his former mistresses, preparing for a shooting match. Even when Christabel tried to stay out of trouble, trouble found her.
“Byrne? Are you going to wager?” Stokely called out.
“Certainly. Put me down for twenty pounds on Lady Haversham to win.”
Talbot duly noted that in the book he kept for these impulsive wagers.
“The same for me,” Stokely said with a smirk. “I dare-say any woman who can put a hole in a man’s hat at fifty yards can shoot a partridge.”
The men snickered.
“How do you know she was aiming for his hat?” Eleanor said with a sniff. “I’d have aimed lower.”
“Could we not discuss the many areas of my person that women wish to shoot?” Gavin drawled. “It makes me nervous with so many loaded rifles lying about.”
“If you weren’t such a stickler for settling gambling debts at once,” Talbot pointed out, “no one would ever want to shoot you.”
Gavin knew the man was alluding to Markham, but he didn’t care. “If I weren’t such a stickler for settling gambling debts, I’d be poor. And the rest of you would have to go to White’s and put up with bad food and even worse liquor.”
Talbot chuckled. “True, true. But perhaps we should follow Lord Haversham’s example and have our wives greet you with a flintlock when you come calling for your money.”
“It was a repeater rifle,” Christabel said grimly, “and my husband eventually paid his debt. As well he should have.”
Gavin raised an eyebrow at her, but Lady Jenner snorted. “Perhaps if you had come to London with your husband from time to time, he wouldn’t have been so free with his funds at the gaming tables in the first place.”
As Christabel paled, Gavin prepared to retort, but Stokely beat him to it. “Haversham didn’t want his wife in town. He told me that himself. He was a very jealous man—he feared she might fall under the influence of gentlemen like myself. And Byrne there.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Christabel snapped. “He didn’t want me in town because he didn’t want me interfering with his visits to his mistress.”
Stokely eyed her askance. “Mistress? He didn’t have one. He certainly would have said something if he had. If anything, he was pathetically besotted with you. Couldn’t stop boasting about his beautiful, clever wife whom none of us would ever get to meet because we weren’t good enough for her.”
Christabel looked thunderstruck. Gavin frowned. Damn it, what idiot had managed to convince her that Haversham possessed a mistress? And what purpose could it possibly have served, except to wound her
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feelings?
The servants had returned and were loading several rifles for each of the women. Christabel watched them silently, her face now impossible to read.
“Watch it, Byrne,” Talbot said jovially, “Lady Haversham is eyeing those rifles awfully closely. Hope you didn’t do anything last night to set her off, or she might take Lady Jenner’s suggestion to heart and aim a bit lower.” He punctuated his comment with a vulgar thrust of his hips. Gavin glanced at Christabel, who merely rolled her eyes at Talbot. Hard to believe she was the same woman who’d been so shocked by the man in London. She’d adapted remarkably well, and he couldn’t help admiring that.
He glanced over to find Anna watching him watch Christabel, and he gave the woman a cool nod. If Anna had been in Christabel’s place, forced to masquerade for a cause…
He couldn’t even imagine it. The woman hadn’t had the spine to stand up to her own parents; she would hardly have the spine to embark on a scheme to save them from harm. Even now, she looked extremely uncomfortable with this adventure. But then she’d never been adventurous. Indeed, she’d been rather predictable, fond of gifts and outings and as frivolous as any other young woman at her come-out. Her father had spoiled her, and she was comfortable with that.
If they’d succeeded in marrying, she’d undoubtedly have been miserable within a month. Her father would have disowned her, so Gavin’s early years as a gaming club owner would have been spent struggling to keep it afloat while his wife complained of his late hours and plagued him to spend money on lofty furnishings, a better house, and a barouche to impress her friends. Perhaps Anna had unwittingly done him a favor. He would probably not be where he was now if he’d married her. And he couldn’t have given her the title and status that she’d needed to be happy. Whereas Christabel…
He glanced over to where she was examining the rifles. What if he’d met Christabel all those years ago? What if he’d been the one to leap to her rescue in Gibraltar? A nonsensical notion. He’d never leaped to anyone’s rescue in his life. Still, if he’d met her at an assembly and courted her as he’d courted Anna, he suspectedshe would not have hesitated to hie off to Gretna Green with him, family approval or no. Christabel had an intoxicating tendency to throw herself heart and soul into everything she did. As a man who’d regulated all his actions for most of his life, he found that immensely refreshing, so refreshing that he could almost imagine—