Somerville Farce (19 page)

How could she be such an idiot as to love
any man that much? “Oh, Harry,” she said on a sigh, “I do love
you—even if you believe me to be a heartless, fortune-hunting
blackmailer.”

“Trixy?”

She turned about quickly, a hand going to
the neckline of her dressing gown. “You!” she exclaimed in
disbelief as she saw the duke’s head poking around the open door to
her chamber. “What do you want? It must be past three in the
morning—and I’m not dressed. Have you taken leave of your senses,
or have you come to gloat over your ridiculous behavior
tonight?”

“Keep your voice down, for pity’s sake, or
else you’ll have my aunt in here declaring I’ve compromised you and
demanding we wed at once.” Glynde walked into the room, a sheet of
paper in his hand.

Trixy wiped surreptitiously at her tears and
rose. “Your point is well-taken. We wouldn’t want anything so
terrible to happen, would we, Harry? Yet, now that I think on it,
if the hints you were dropping all night to Sir Roderick finally
serve to bring to his attention my most grievous faults, perhaps I
might consider saving myself by considering such a scheme. You
already know that I am beyond nothing when it comes to securing my
own comfort.”

Harry wasn’t listening, at least not very
carefully. He was too intent on his reason for coming to see her at
this hour of the morning. “Stop thinking only of yourself a moment,
Trixy,” he admonished meanly, causing her head to snap back as if
she had been slapped. “I stumbled over this note in my study. I
don’t think I was supposed to see it until tomorrow morning, but
women being as scatterbrained as they are, who’s to know?” He
thrust the paper into her nerveless hands. “Here. See if you can
make head or tail of it.”

Trixy walked over to the nearby brace of
candles and applied herself to reading the childish scrawl. “Oh, my
Lord, Helena’s gone!” she exclaimed when she was done. “I should
have known it! No wonder Helena was so in the doldrums all night,
watching Mr. Saltaire from across the room as he performed his duty
dances. It wasn’t Helena at Lady Hereford’s at all—it was Eugenie!
It all makes sense to me now.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked,
sprawling in a chair. “That note says Helena has run off with some
blackguard named Percy, which is impossible, because Helena has
been with us all evening long. I found the note before she could
put her plan into motion, which is why I came to you. You’ll have
to talk some sense into her head.”

He sat up very straight, as the whole of
what Trixy had said penetrated his weary brain. “Are you telling me
that it wasn’t Helena who was with us, but Eugenie—with the real
Helena staying home with the headache, pretending she was Eugenie?
My God!” He hopped to his feet. “Quickly, woman. Go to their rooms
and count noses!”

Trixy put a hand to her mouth. “I will if
you insist, but I doubt that it will do more than prove me right. I
had a feeling there was something strange about Helena—Eugenie,
that is—this evening, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I usually
don’t have much trouble telling them apart, unless they don’t want
me to know which is which. Obviously tonight was one of those
times.”

She sat herself down on the edge of the bed,
shaking her head. “What a sad hash I’ve made of everything, Harry.
If I hadn’t been so concerned over whatever mischief you had
planned for tonight, I should have seen through their deception in
a moment. Now Helena has run off to Gretna Green with Percival
Sauveur.” She shook her head, shaking off some of her guilt. “This
is all your fault, you know, Harry, now that I think on it.”

“My fault? My fault!” Harry crossed the room
in a half-dozen quick strides, to place himself squarely in front
of Trixy. “Oh, you’re a real piece of work, aren’t you, Miss
Stourbridge? I put a roof over your head, clothes on your back,
watch as you lead my friend on a merry dance—and now it’s my fault
that the one thing you were supposed to do in order to earn your
keep, running herd on the twins, has ended in a shambles. I warn
you, madam, I am feeling an almost overwhelming urge to break open
your head, just so that I might see how that twisted brain of yours
works!”

He whirled away, to begin pacing the carpet,
before turning back to her. “And just who or what in bloody hell is
Percival Sauveur?”

Trixy’s shoulders lifted and fell in a great
sigh. “He’s the French dancing master hired to tutor the twins when
first we came to London. The dancing master that you hired, Harry,
if you’ll recall.”

The duke slapped a palm hard against his
forehead. “Oh, that’s above everything wonderful! A dancing master.
And now you’re twisting it around so that you can lay more blame at
my feet—because I’m the one who chose him? Go ahead, feel free,
madam. I’m a grown man—I can take it.”

“Oh, stifle yourself.” Trixy had had enough.
“Monsieur Sauveur is a very nice young man, the son of some
aristocrat who fled here during the Terror and never went back.
Monsieur Sauveur might be poor, but he is from a good family. If
you give me a moment, I may be able to remember his title. It’s
very long and involved, as I recall.”

“And that makes everything right, I suppose?
God, to be a woman, and have a woman’s sense of logic!” Glynde
stomped back to where Trixy was sitting and pulled her to her feet.
“How do you suppose Eugenie will be allowed to wed her Salty
now—once his mother catches wind of Helena’s flight? Not only have
you damned me, madam, to supporting Helena and her tippy-toed frog
throughout eternity, but I shall never be rid of Eugenie either,
unless Salty decides to marry over the anvil as well. I’m chin-deep
in expensive, glove-buying women, Miss Stourbridge, and I don’t
like it! I don’t bloody well like it at all!”

Trixy threw back her head and glared up into
his face. “Why, you poor oppressed man,” she declared vehemently.
“Far be it from me to point out that this entire business started
when your brother took it into his maggot-infested head to serve up
Eugenie and Helena in your bed like sacrificial virgins so that you
could revenge yourself on their father. Far be it from me to point
out that, after volunteering to sponsor the twins for the Season,
you have done nothing but roar around here like a lion with a sore
paw, moaning about modiste bills that any nursery toddler could
have told you are part and parcel of launching a young miss. Far be
it from me to—”

“Shut up!” Harry commanded, remembering what
had happened the last time Trixy dared to gift him with a
cataloging of his sins. He wasn’t about to fall into that trap
again—kissing her to cut off her damning truths. If he kissed her
again, he might never be able to let her go, no matter how
larcenous her nature. Still, the idea did have some appeal, and he
made no move to put some sanity-restoring space between them.

Trixy, who had also remembered the end
result of their last argument, bit her hp and lowered her head.
“I’m sorry, Harry. We’re both overset about Helena, I suppose.
Don’t you think we should be rousing the household and setting off
after her? She can’t have gotten very far.”

Harry liked the feel of soft silk beneath
his hands and began running his fingers lightly up and down Trixy’s
slim arms. “It has begun raining buckets out there,” he heard
himself say, amazed at his sudden lack of interest in Helena
Somerville. “It would be a messy ride, and we can’t be sure which
road they took, or if they’re riding in a stagecoach.”

“That’s true enough,” Trixy agreed quietly,
a small fire starting somewhere in her stomach as she was once more
brought to the realization of where they were and how she was
dressed—or undressed. “And she just might run away again after
we’ve gone to all the trouble of fetching her home. She was
terribly unhappy, poor darling, and now we know it was for love of
her Percy. Yes, she’d probably just run off again. Helena can be
very determined. We would have put ourselves out for nothing.”

Harry nodded, noticing not for the first
time that Trixy’s jasmine-scented perfume suited her perfectly. Go
haring out after Helena? Why would he want to do such a thing when
it was so warm and cozy here, in Trixy’s bedchamber? “Eugenie seems
to have given her blessing to the match, or else she wouldn’t have
helped her make good her escape. She’s the child’s only family—as I
don’t count deserting papas as family. Who are we to object if
Helena’s sister is agreeable to the marriage?”

“You’ll still turn over the portion you set
aside for her?” Trixy asked, deliberately staring at his cravat, as
his tone had turned low and seductive, even if his words were
anything but loverlike.

He nodded. “And even pay her an allowance as
long as she promises to stay at least one hundred miles from any of
my houses,” he added, chuckling. “So, I guess that’s all settled
then, isn’t it? This launching business isn’t so bad after all. One
down, one to go.”

Trixy kept her eyes averted. “I think I’ve
found a way around Mrs. Saltaire’s objections,” she told him,
wishing her breathing could be more regular. “The woman is very
involved in charity work. Eugenie is also very interested in doing
good deeds. I think if we could just get the two of them together
and set them to talking to each other—”

“We’d have Salty and Eugenie neatly
bracketed before the king’s birthday!” Harry concluded happily, as
all the little puzzle pieces began to fall so neatly into place. He
sobered suddenly and took his hands from Trixy’s shoulders,
allowing them to glide slowly downward to grasp her slim waist.
“And then what, Trixy, hmm? Would you still want that cottage by
the sea—or do your plans also run to matrimony?”

She tried to move away from Harry’s grasp,
but the bed was directly behind her and she had nowhere to go.
“What do you think, Harry?” she asked breathlessly, daring to look
up at him.

“Roddy believes himself madly in love with
you. He’d talk you straight into an early grave, but he is sincere.
I think he’d marry you even if I told him the truth about you.”

Her gaze searched his, her heart on fire
with the love she was sure he’d throw back into her face if she
dared to declare it. “And what is the truth about me, Harry? Do you
know? Do you even care?”

He lifted a hand to stroke the side of her
face, then pushed his fingers into her unbound hair. “I thought I
did. I think I do—and then again, I’m not sure. Sometimes I think
you want me to believe the worst of you, Trixy. But then, there are
other times, times when I watch you being so kind to my aunt, times
when I overhear you drilling the girls on their manners or laughing
and teasing Willie and Andy the way you never have me...” He took a
deep breath. “Those are the times that I believe I did you a grave
injustice in asking you to become my mistress.”

This was wrong. This was all so very, very
wrong. Alone together in her chamber, with his defenses down, Trixy
knew she was within an inch of having Harry declare for her. His
eyes were burning so brightly that Trixy felt as if she would burst
into flame if she didn’t find some way of deflecting the heat that
threatened to consume them both.

Only in the morning, when he had more time
to think, would he realize that he had let the passion of the
moment overcome his deep-down conviction that she was a scheming
blackmailer, and then he would hate her even more.

She wanted nothing more than to have him
believe she was innocent, to make him see that circumstances, and
not inclination, had led her to the point where she had demanded
payment for her silence about his brother’s rash maneuver, but deep
in her heart she knew that she had indeed succumbed to the
temptation to improve her own lot while she was at it. She had
concocted that whole stupid blackmail scheme, and she had, at least
for a time, entertained every notion of carrying out that scheme to
the letter.

She was a soiled woman, a criminal, no
matter how noble her intentions—and how noble could they have been,
considering that she had not been satisfied with gaining rescue for
the twins, but had gone on recklessly demanding that her own nest
be feathered as well?

Still, Harry was standing so close to her.
His lips were within scant inches of hers, his hard body only a
whisper away. She wouldn’t inflict herself on him, or take what he
offered, only to see his love turn to scorn as he remembered how
she had tried to manipulate his life. But couldn’t she have one
last kiss, one last memory to cling to, before she did the noble
thing and walked out of his life?

“Harry, I...” she began, raising her hands
to his chest, to bury them in the intricate folds of his snowy
white cravat.

“Trixy, my darling...” he returned huskily,
his head bending to hers.

“And isn’t this a pretty sight, and no
mistake. Playing at slap and tickle with his worship, is it? A body
would think the money would be enough fer ye. Would ye be wantin’
by chance ta know what’s been goin’ on whilst ye two been doin’
whatever it is ye’re doin’ in here? My Helena’s up and gone off ta
wed that Frenchie prancin’ master, that’s what.”

“Lacy!” Trixy exclaimed, nearly toppling
onto the bed as the duke turned, shielding her with his body.
“This... this isn’t what you think,” she said, peeking around
Harry’s shoulder and cudgeling her brain for some explanation that
would save the duke from disgrace. “His grace has been... has been
comforting me, as he found the note Helena left when she eloped
with Monsieur Sauveur, and I... I felt faint when I heard the
news.”

The maid merely sniffed, saying something
about tugging at her other leg, as it had bells on it, and launched
into a recitation of her own problems. “Dosed me good with some of
me own laudanum, that tricky little colleen did, so that I just
woke up, don’t ye know. I roused Eugenie with a cuff on the ear—I
was that mad—and she told me the whole of it.